The Poison Orchid
by Ilythia Major
Summary: In the distant future, the Doctor finds himself investigating a mysterious plague.
1. Chapter 1

It had been nearly four hours since takeoff: Time for a break. Sandra stepped into the galley to find fellow flight attendant Haleigh leaning into a sink mirror, applying makeup. She had taken advantage of the privacy to slip off her hair tie, loosing a mass of bright red curls. Sandra shook her head. "Ach! What I wouldn't do for that mop!"

Haleigh looked over her shoulder. The girls exchanged glances, then broke into snorts of laughter. "Right," said Haleigh, and returned to her face. Sandra was the skinny, blond, undisputed sweetheart of the shuttle line, with three dates this weekend alone and two men from previous nights begging for more of her attention. She was the last person who needed help with relationships.

_Not that Haleigh is a plain jane, of course,_ Sandra thought as she primed the coffeemaker. She was a sweet girl. "Any takers in port this weekend?"

"No . . ."

She tried to sound casual but Sandra wasn't fooled. Poor thing. On the other hand, all that sweetness was prone to give off a safe, sheltered vibe, which a lot of men liked to write off as "un-fun". "I could have one of my boyfriends give you a ring if you get bored . . ."

"Oh, no!" _Great,_ thought Haleigh, _now she thinks I'm pathetic!_ But she was, sort of, and Sandra was just being a good friend. "No, see, I have this date—well, this guy, he likes me, it's just . . . you know, he's got a girlfriend, and he doesn't want to see _me_ until he's left _her_ . . ."

"Ahhh. Good for you!" _Good luck with that. _Sandra poured the coffee.

"Yeah. Meh. I dunno if it's _sweet_ or . . ." Her voice trailed off as she saw, or thought she saw, something in the mirror. Something that made her feel weak. She smoothed back the curls around her temple for a closer look.

"Haleigh? You alright?"

Haleigh spun around. Sandra was standing in the middle of the galley, a cup of coffee in each hand and a very concerned look on her face. "Mm? I'm fine!"

She clearly wasn't, but Sandra didn't see the point in arguing if the girl wouldn't admit it. "Coffee?"

"Yes, please!"

"Cream or—okay," she said as Haleigh dove for the cup. Now she _knew_ something was wrong. Haleigh couldn't stand black coffee. And now here she was, guzzling it down in all its steaming hot glory. "You sure you're alright?"

"I'll be okay. Just a little . . . worn out."

"Well, here, sit down, then. I can take care of things the next few shifts if you need a break."

"Thanks . . ." Dizzy, trembling, Haleigh took the bench and tried to settle down. She was panicking for no reason: Everyone was a little paranoid these days, it was probably nothing. She didn't feel any different—apart from being scared, of course. Everything was fine.

"I'll fix you a plate," said Sandra, heading back to the cupboards. "That should perk you up. Is there anything you'd like? I'm sorry if you want playfood, the skinny guy in row 9 bought off the last—"

"Ohhhhh . . . my—_No! NO!"_

Sandra went cold. She turned slowly. ". . . Haleigh . . . ?"

Haleigh started screaming.

* * *

The Doctor sat—leaned back, eyes open—in the most comfortable third class seat he'd ever been in.

—Well, by human standards, anyway. But really, Astro Ilythia was no second-rate shuttle line.

The rest of the cabin was more or less asleep. It was technically the middle of the night, and they'd been flying for over five hours, so anyone on a reversed schedule would've passed out from boredom by now anyways. The lamps were turned down to a barely noticeable glow, so that the room was lit chiefly by the window—not one of the little portholes that ran along the left side, but the great glass skylight that took up the entire upper-right half of the cabin, under which the Doctor sat gazing out at the stars.

He couldn't sleep. Who could sleep with a view like that? It was _beautiful._ They had been in Aurora's shadow for an hour now, which meant the shades and the shutters were safe to open and the void of deep space left unobscured. Funny: As beautiful as it seemed, there was always a small part of him that looked into that great, glaring emptiness and found it just a tad unsettling. Because for all its wonder and its eons—_eons_ of perfect stillness, it made up billions of miles in all directions that would rip to shreds whatever life form dared enter into it. Amazing how a bit of engineering and titanium could defy physics long enough to hold up against _that!_ —For oblivion, space could feel so very alive . . .

"Excuse me?"

He looked up, around, and finally turned his head to see a pale face peeking at him over the seat backs of his row, its hair dyed black with two precise stripes going down the middle. "Um, hi!"

"Hi . . . Do you mind terribly if I sit down for a minute—here? _Just_ for a minute."

"You have a . . ." He was at a loss. He gestured helplessly to her head. "Skunk . . . stripe . . ."

"Oh!" She grinned. "I like you already. Do you study mythology?"

"More or less. Sorry. You can sit here, go right ahead."

"Oh, thanks!" She slid round the seats and plopped down beside him. She was a lean little thing in a black utility jacket, with particularly pale blue eyes. She seemed unusually spry for a student of mythology—if that was what she was. "I'm sorry, I won't bother you long. I'm . . . kind of hiding."

"Hiding. Hiding from what?"

"Well, I'm—I'm sort of in trouble. But _not,"_ she added quickly.

He raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"It's not _really_ a problem. If he sees us and thinks we're talking like we know each other, he's likely to keep going."

And whatever prevented this "he"—whoever "he" was—from staking out and waiting for her to emerge later? The Doctor frowned. She seemed to think she wouldn't have to hide that long . . . He pushed it out of his head. It wasn't his business.

Oh, hang on, though—the pilot! Sure, that made sense: He was the only one who couldn't afford to stalk the cabin all flight long. So, one of the _pilots_ was after her—but why? What could the pilot want with her personally that couldn't be handled by someone else?

. . . Ahh, then it was personal: Personal meant embarrassment.

Oh, no.

He licked his lips. "You're not . . . you're not together, are you? with this person who's looking for you?"

She blinked, then realized what he meant and snorted. "Oh, he _wishes."_

"But you never were?"

"Nope."

Oh, brilliant. That left him with the less savory explanation. "Then you're . . . not _blackmailing_ them? . . . "

She broke into a grin. "No! . . . Not actually, anyway." She saw him frown and explained: "I have this friend, and this friend has a friend, and that friend knows the captain. Well, they thought it would be funny to download some data off the captain's key that . . . well, the captain didn't want anyone else to have, and they shared it with _my_ friend, who then shared it with me." She raised her arm and indicated a thick, glossy black band looped round her wrist. When she tapped it, a colorful holographic display sprang out of the blackness and orbited her arm. "It's nothing dangerous to anyone, just to his pride."

Ahh, the wrist keys: He forgot, these people liked to carry their whole identities in their bracelets. "You say you're not blackmailing this person, this captain.—'Not _actually.'_ What does that mean?"

"It means he's paranoid and thinks because I've got it, I _care._"

"Shouldn't be a problem, then. Just delete the video and let him know it was a misunderstanding, eh?"

"Hmph." She tapped the display off. She seemed about to say something when she noticed his hand. "Hey—where's _your_ key?"

". . . Oh!" He looked at his wrist. "Yeah, I . . . I don't have one."

"You've gone tagged?"

"Oh, no, no—the Hecatians don't use wrist keys." He hadn't even seen any of those bands till he went through Gettys III, the space station, and the psychic paper gave him clearance to fly without having to apply for one.

She raised her eyebrows. "Ohhhh!—You're from Hecate?"

". . . Yes." Well, it was true: He had _come from_ Hecate, if only just now.

"Wow. Sorry. I might've guessed." But then she took a second look at him and changed her mind. "No, actually, no, I never would've guessed. You seem too—well, compared to the Hecatians I have met, you seem a bit too . . modern."

"Not all Hecatians are farmers."

"Fair point. Is this your first time on-planet, then?"

"My first time to Aurora? . . . Yes." Actually true: Last time he'd been to Hecate, Aurora hadn't even been terraformed, let alone civilized. Back when Hecate was just a sprawling little moon colony lost on the edge of mankind's star charts.

"Okay, bit of advice, then: Find an administrative office or somewhere when we land and get a key fitted as soon as you can, right? There should be a place in port where you can get it done."

"Thanks, will do." Will not.

"Ladies and gentleman!"

They frowned and looked together into the aisle. The blond attendant was at the back of the cabin with the microphone in her hand. . . . Her shaking, pale hand, he couldn't help but notice. "Ladies and gentleman, w-we will be landing in a-about an hour." She turned off the microphone to take a deep breath, then went on: "Please stand by to take your seats and secure your safety belts for the descent. Thank you."

He frowned. Half to himself, he wondered, "Now, that's odd, what's wrong with her? . . ."

The girl got out of her seat. "Well, that's my cue. See you later—or, well, maybe not. Anyway it was nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too!" And then she was gone, and he turned his attention back to the attendant, who was still shaking. Not in fear, though. Not exactly. Her eyes were sort of dead and blank, like she was in a daze. Had something happened? It might be nothing; it might just be something personal.

Regardless, however, he deemed it better to be safe than sorry and went to the back to check on her. She shut him off, though, snapping something defensive about it being none of his business, and closed the galley door on him, nearly in tears. And she was right, it wasn't any of his business, so he returned to his seat and waited for landing.

* * *

Malcolm Barkhoff sat at the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. The doctor still hadn't called.

It had been three days since they last spoke. How long could it possibly take?

Perhaps this was good? he wondered hopefully. What if Kreshner wasn't calling because he had something and didn't want to get Malcolm's hopes up till he was sure of it?

No, no, now _he_ was getting his own hopes up.

His wrist went off. He tapped the line open. "Dr. Kreshner?"

"Chancellor Barkhoff. I hope this isn't a bad time."

"It's never a bad time. Tell me."

Dr. Kreshner stood in the middle of a stark white quarantine chamber at Ilythia General Hospital, before a great, monstrous life support unit. It had round, friendly edges and a soft green color, as if its designer had thought appearances could lessen the gravity of its application; at its head was a lit window through which the head and shoulders of Barkhoff's son, Grady, could be seen. The unit had been modified to maintain his body functions at a prolonged metabolic rate, and technically everyone who entered the room was supposed to wear a mask and gloves, but it had been weeks since the boy had been put into stasis and no one really believed in any risk of infection now.

The doctor consulted a clipboard. "I've got the results back. It's . . . it's not good. I'm sorry. We've been able to slow the spread of the virus, but the new DNA didn't take." If anything, the virus had chewed through it with all the more relish.

Malcolm's heart sank. He was silent a long while, till Kreshner finally said: ". . . Sir?"

He smoothed his forehead. "Yes."

"There's a shuttle coming in with some passengers from Hecate. Shall I send for more subjects?"

He thought it over. ". . . No. Not now. Try again. Try something else. I dunno, give it one more chance."

"As you say, sir. I'll call you when we have more results."

"Oh, one more thing, Kreshner! . . . Is he . . ." He licked his lips. "Is he still . . . _alright?_"

Grady was anything but alright, but the Kreshner knew what he meant. "He's looking good sir."

"Thank you. Goodnight, doctor."

"Good night, sir." He tapped off the line and looked down into the unit window. Grady had been looking good, two days ago. A slight discoloration had formed on the scalp at the back of his head. No need to worry the chancellor, though.


	2. Chapter 2

A rapid, throbbing melody filled the room; a gyroscopic chandelier spun four stories over the dance floor, where floor projectors set the walls ablaze with warm, bittersweet hues. Twin staircases led up from the center of the hall to two gilded decks, each outfitted with all the classic human diversions—food, drink, media, and then something on the topmost floor that blocked off with shades.

Club Gaia was, evidently, the place to be on a friday night—or whatever night it was. (The Doctor was a little fuzzy on the local calendar.) Ilythia, proud owner of one of the planet's mere twelve public space docks, was consequently riddled with tourist traps: Club Gaia, one of the Top Ten such distractions listed in his travel guide, was placed strategically close to the landing pads, so that he had hardly stepped out of the port gift shop when the club's pulsing neon caught his attention from across the street.

—Well, actually, more like punched him in the eyes and burned its impression into them. Talk about _blinding_ . . .

Once inside, though, he could see why it attracted so many people. It was stunning. Columns on the first floor danced with red and yellow light; one of the deck cafes was equipped with hovering stools and lamps, both of which glowed an eery blue; one of the bars was formed out of a huge aquarium. He chose a seat at one of the simpler bars, though, on the ground floor, which had been decorated with orchids. Orchids! So many things lost since Aurora's ancestors made the trip from earth, and yet they still had orchids!

He had only just ordered a drink—mainly to appease the bartender—when he heard a familiar voice:

"Hey! Long time no see."

It was the girl from the shuttle. She had exchanged the black jacket for a sharp red dress, but the skunk stripe remained as full as ever. "Oh, yes! Hi! Hullo!"

"You look somewhat lost. Are you waiting for someone?"

"No, no, I'm just . . . seeing the sights."

"Too bad. You don't look like you should be alone."

He almost said something, then didn't. He considered the drink the bartender had given him and downed it. "Nah, it's fine," he rasped. "Say, I don't think we've properly introduced ourselves."

"Quite right," she said, and they shook hands. "Pleasure to meet you: I'm Camelia Gangway."

That caught him by surprise. "Really!" He grinned. "That's brilliant! That's a _brilliant_ name!" Like a she-chameleon running headlong through a crowd.

"What's yours?"

"Oh—Smith. John Smith."

"Oof."

"Hey now, hang on! That's no way to treat newcomers." She laughed. "So what happened to that video? That whole business with the captain?"

"Hm? Oh, that! Yeah, that's all sorted," she said as she toyed with her wrist key self-consciously. "You remember you asked why I didn't just delete the videos."

"Yes."

"Couldn't. Wasn't my key. My friend and I switched so I could take a holiday on Gettys and I couldn't get mine back till I got to Aurora, and the only reason I'm letting _you_ in on any of this," she said coyly, "is because I see you still haven't gotten your own key yet." She frowned. "How did you get in?"

"Oh—friend of a friend, that sort of thing. They're off, running the place at the moment," he added quickly.

"How does that work if you've never been here before?"

"Ahhh . . . well, when I say friend, I sort of mean family . . ."

Her frowned deepened. ". . . Family that didn't tell you anything about applying for a key?"

He struggled for words. "It's so . . . very complicated.

She eyed him incredulously, but after a moment she shrugged the matter aside. "Alright, then. Would you like some company while you're out, or shall I get out of your way whilst you . . . browse?" She gestured vaguely towards the dance floor.

"Oh, you're not in my way!"

"Good!—Though, I should warn you right now, I've no plans to go upstairs with you."

"Hm? Wha—"

He was interrupted by a scream. The Doctor looked up. The woman responsible was staring—along with the crowd around her—at the bartender, who was pouring out a drink. He must have been at it for some time, because it was spilling all over the sides of the glass, and he couldn't seem to stop. He was too busy convulsing.

As he shook, his flesh began to change: A pallor spread over his healthy pink features in a wave down from his head, blotching horribly in sick green patches. His eyes dulled; and with a final tremor, his body slackened and he dropped the glass to the floor. He looked up with dead eyes and moaned horrifically.

All the while the Doctor sat, transfixed, trying to make out what he was seeing. All around him people were running and screaming, trying to get out. Somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that he was the only one left sitting at the counter. A hand grabbed his arm, and Camelia shouted, "Come _on!_"

He got up in the nick of time. The bartender, or whatever he had become, had fixed its gaze on him and flung itself clumsily forward just as she pulled him back. Without warning, Camelia whipped something blue out of her pocket and there were three bursts of color that barreled straight into the man's brain, knocking him dead on his back.

The Doctor stared. "What?!"

"Now, come _on!"_ she cried, and dragged him towards the exit.

They had only made it halfway when a fresh scream broke out from across the flood of chaos. The Doctor stopped, squinting, and Camelia followed suit. Another man had gone green on the middle of the dance floor, and was tumbling lamely into those left at the back of the stampede.

Camelia leveled her weapon. "GET DOWN."

Half the room obliged, clearing her line of sight, and she fired. A bolt of red went bang out of the barrel and straight into the man's head. He collapsed, but his limp arm fell haphazardly onto a poor woman who failed to roll out of its way.

She hesitated. The woman whimpered. Then, aiming low, Camelia shot her.

"_What?!"_

Someone from the second deck shouted "There's more upstairs!" and they looked up. Torrents of humanity spilled down the stairs and over the rails, though the Doctor didn't see any more of the green effect.

"We need to get _out,"_ she hissed.

"Right. Yes. Off we go!"

They made a dash for the exit only to find it blocked by a wailing, writhing mass of people pressing themselves against the doors. Apparently something had jammed in the chaos.

"Wonder if it's a pull, not a push?" he mused aloud.

"Wha—!" She gaped indignantly, then punched his arm.

"Ow! Hey!"

Someone shrieked. _"They're coming down!"_

Now he saw: A dead-eyed woman dragging herself on all fours across one of the cafe floors to the staircase, and a dead-eyed man trudging over the deck above. Right! Time to move. "Out of the way!" He plunged headlong into the crowd and wrestled angrily with the bodies locked tight in his way.

He glanced over his shoulder. The man above had reached the edge of the rail: without hesitation he clambered over and fell to the ground floor with a sickening thud. Like a lemming. He didn't appear to be getting up, but there was still the woman crawling down the stairs, and the Doctor wasn't making any progress cutting through the crowd.

"Use your chest," Camelia suggested.

"You know, a little help—"

But she was already on it. _"_HE'S INFECTED!"

He nearly tripped and fell as people fled out from under him. "Really!" He pulled out his screwdriver and ran to the door.

"Yeah, actually, he's not. Sorry, people."

"Thank you."

He aimed the screwdriver: A quick buzz and the door swung open. He was nearly run over by the mob, ducking out of the way the outside of the door just in time. He peered through the glass, searching for Camelia, and saw the cadaverous woman instead. She had reached the ground floor and was inching forwards on her belly, lethargically but steadily. Then he spied a skunk stripe: Camelia got her gun out and blasted the woman. Then she holstered her weapon and, finally, ran out the doors to join the Doctor. He considered locking the doors to contain any other tainted humans that might be inside, but it occurred to him there might still be a few healthy people left in the club and thought better of it: At any rate the greened lot didn't seem mechanically inclined enough to handle door knobs.

It was then he noticed something strange. Something _really _strange.

The rioting had stopped. Almost as suddenly as it had begun. Human beings, one after another, having tripped over each other as they piled through the door, came to a walk within a moment of leaving the building. Once on the street they slowed down, caught their breath, dusted themselves off, and wandered away from the scene calm as you like.

His astonishment must have shown on his face, because Camelia asked him what the problem was. "What . . . No one's shocked, no one's stunned, no one's phoning emergency services or asking what's going on . . . It's like it never happened!" It was a incontrovertible fact of life: When homo sapiens met with horror, they feared, they fled, and they went into shock. But here there was no shock; a few people gasping for breath, but no _shock_.

"Someone will have called containment," said Camelia. "They should be here in a few minutes."

He stared at her. _"'Containment'?"_

"Yeah . . . Why not? There a problem with containment?" She stared back, equally confused.

"Alright, no, sorry, just tell me—What _is_ containment'?"

She raised an eyebrow. "It's . . . the squad . . . that handles the outbreaks?"

"What do you mean, 'outbreaks'?!"

Suddenly, realization came into her eyes. She looked at him with some mixture of horror and disbelief. "You mean . . . there really isn't any rhixis on Hecate?"

_Rhixis._ Ahhh. He had a feeling he was finally getting somewhere. He asked her what she meant.

"I mean . . . you know . . . _rhixis_ . . . You've never heard of it? . . . No one on Hecate . . . breaks into a green state out of nowhere and then dies?"

Hecate was well populated and he couldn't completely rule out the possibility that such things never occurred, but what he'd seen in three hours on Aurora he'd neither seen nor heard of in three weeks on Hecate. "No. —Well, _I've_ never seen it, at least."

"Oh my gosh . . ." She stumbled towards a nearby bench and sat down, gaping. ". . . I can't believe this . . . I thought it was all rubbish. I never would've dreamed . . . But _why?"_

She was talking to herself now. He needed more information. He sat down beside her. "Tell me more about this, this 'rhixis'. Are you saying it's a disease?"

She nodded numbly. "Yeah . . . No one really knows what it is. It just happens. One day you're absolutely fine, minding your own business, and then suddenly you've gone green and your flesh starts to fall off."

He made a face. "Is it contagious?"

"Oh, yeah! You touch someone with it, you catch it in seconds. But no one knows how people get it in the first place."

"And how long has this been going on?"

"When _hasn't_ it? I can barely remember when the reports first started coming. It's been about . . . twenty years, I think?"

"What?! . . . And your doctors have found _nothing?!"_

"Well, not for lack of trying," she said, a little defensively. "They're working like mad at the hospital right now. They have to; Chancellor Barkhoff's son's got it, too. Second in a row."

There was a loud sound, like thunder, and the thrum of rotor blades. "That'll be containment," she said. They watched as a troop of men in full-body suits and gas masks roped down around the club from helicopters.

The Doctor noticed rifles slung across their backs. "Oof. Don't know what they hope to accomplish with those, seeing as how you _shot _most of the infected."

She grinned. "Yes, I did."

He frowned, mind back on the problem. "How often does it happen? The outbreaks, I mean."

"Mmm . . . well, I dunno . . . I can only speak for myself. But I see one every . . . two weeks or so. You hear about it more on the news."

"And you just happen to be carrying a gun—to a club!—for just such an occasion." He stood to his feet. "What's with that, anyway?"

She stood up with him and pulled out her little blue pistol. "Oh, this? It's a hand-me-down from my sponsor's old teacher. Are we going somewhere?"

"I am. I've got to get back to the docks."

"You're going back to Hecate?"

"Yeah." He had to get back to the TARDIS. If he could trace this nightmare back to its origins maybe he could help put an end to it.

"Well, good _luck."_

"What do you mean?"

"Port'll be closed till the area is deemed safe again. And even if you make it to the space station, don't you need some kind of special clearance to fly to Hecate?"

"What?! How long is _that_ gonna take?—and what do you mean, 'special clearance'? I got out of Hecate without a problem!"

She almost smiled and stopped herself; apparently his distress was funnier than he realized. "Well, one, it'll probably be a few days before containment sounds the all clear, and two, how do you not know about that? That's how it's been for _five years."_

He blinked. ". . . _Has_ it?" he asked, rather lamely.

"Of course!"

"Since when?"

"I don't know; now as I think about it, it probably has something to do with Hecatians not getting sick."

"Five years, and no one's allowed onto Hecate? . . ."

"Oh, people are allowed, it's just very difficult. I know of one man who couldn't get back for a year."

Well, _that_ he could probably bypass with psychic paper. "What about getting up in the first place, then?"

"That'll take awhile. You see, the docks will technically be open tomorrow, but for the next week they won't accept any passengers who haven't been stamped by the hospital first; whenever there's a outbreak the government blocks all exit routes and asks the people in the district to get checked for rhixis before trying to leave."

"I see, so it's a screening process."

"Basically."

"So we could possibly still have some of the disease on us?"

She shrugged. "Probably not. As a rule, you're clean until touched by someone who's been infected, and when that happens you turn green, too."

He frowned. "And yet, somehow, people still catch it spontaneously. I can understand the need for caution . . . Where's the nearest hospital?"

"Ilythia General. Just a few streets down."

"Alright, then. Is that where they're treating the chancellor's son, by any chance?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Ohhh, just thought I'd pop in, ask around."

Her eyebrows went up. ". . . You're just going to waltz inside and ask to see the country's medical research?"

"_Well,_ maybe not _ask,_ exactly."

She narrowed her eyes. ". . . Alright, that's enough. Who _are_ you?"

"Hm?"

"Who are you, really? You're not just some John Smith from Hecate who keeps forgetting to get a key made and happens to know someone who lets him into an expensive club anyway. I'd say you were a government agent, except you keep asking stupid questions. I'd even say you were a spy, but even if you were a Hecatian spy and somehow didn't know about rhixis you'd know better than to make that obvious. Now, I don't have a _problem_ with any of this," she said, raising her hands diplomatically, "except that now it just got _interesting_ and I'd _really_ like to know."

"Yeah . . . I guess that's fair. I'm the Doctor."

She blinked. ". . . Well, then, I guess the truth comes out! Doctor _who?"_

"Just 'The Doctor'."

"Doctor of _what?"_

"That's it, just Doctor. Doctor of my own. Freelance. Sort of."

She peered at him, scrutinizing, and something akin to amusement came into her eye. ". . . You know, the worst part is that I believe you."

"Brilliant! Let's go, then!"

"Wha—hold on, off with you? Now? You're going to go poking around right now?"

"Of course!"

"And you expect, what, you'll . . . uncover some crucial element that will lead you to a cure and solve the whole problem?"

"Worth a try."

"You really think you can do that?"

A smile played at the corner of his mouth and he shrugged mildly. "Maybe."

"And you want me to come with you?"

"Yeah! Why not?"

"Well, I . . ." She scoffed, looked back down the street where they'd come, frowned, scoffed again, then swung her hands out in resignation. ". . . I've got a _life,"_ she ended drily.

"_Do_ you?" He grew serious again. "Because it seems to _me,_ you do an awful lot of traveling alone for someone with very pressing ties."

"And you would know, I suppose?" She gave him a wry smile.

He hesitated. Just for a beat, though. "Ah, well! I guess that's all up to you. Think you'll find anything more interesting to do today?" He raised his eyebrows innocently and turned on his heel.

He went five, ten, twenty steps, and at last the sound of jogging caught up to him. "The hospital's down _that_ street."

"Right!"

"I hate you."

"Awww, no you don't."


	3. Chapter 3

Ilythia General was about two hours out of his way, even by executive monorail, so Barkhoff couldn't visit for long; and he wasn't allowed inside the quarantine chamber, so all he could do was look on through the glass, trying in vain to catch a glimpse into the casket within. Nevertheless, he made sure to visit every spare chance he got.

"I told you before, it will take some time to be sure of the results," Kreshner was saying.

"Yes, but you _are_ doubtful."

"This treatment has failed once already."

Barkhoff drew out a long breath. He was not a gambling man. But by that same token, he had already lost one son and Grady was all he had left. There wasn't much time, even with the boy's metabolism reduced. "Fine. Go ahead. —And, just a thought, have you considered lowering the dosage?"

Kreshner blinked. "What, to the boy?"

"To the Hecatians."

"Oh! Well, naturally. Small as you like." _I did actually attend medical school, thank you,_ he thought irritably.

"So why isn't it _working?"_

The doctor took a deep breath. "Well, frankly, sir, it's because the technology we need to rewrite an entire genome and fortify it before the virus takes over _doesn't exist."_

"Doesn't it." Barkhoff snorted and looked again into the quarantine room. "Well, perhaps I could get a second opinion."

_You mean fire me._ "I might remind you, you can't let me go without the risk that I'll talk—Not that I _would,"_ he added quickly, seeing the chancellor's face. "And besides, if you do want your second opinion, you'll need me around to educate new staff on your son's history."

Barkhoff glowered. Kreshner waited. The chancellor wouldn't be pleased with the idea, but the doctor was confident he'd surrender to the logic of the situation: New staff would need someone with experience on Grady's case, and if Kreshner were to disappear people might start to ask questions.

After a long pause the shadow passed from the chancellor's face and he sighed. "I don't need this pointless quibbling. I do need you. If you need any extra staff or supplies, let me know."

How like a politician. "Thank you, sir." Once Barkhoff was gone he called in Nurse Medley, a sharp little thing with long black hair. "Go down to screening; see who you can find."

* * *

"Does it always take this long? I thought you said people didn't have to get stamped unless they needed to leave town within the week."

"I did. And yet, as you can see, the lines are always longest the first day."

The hospital had a whole waiting room devoted to people waiting to be screened, and it was _still_ packed. There was a sign telling everyone to please keep at least two feet apart, in case of outbreak, but no one paid any attention. (Not that the Doctor blamed them; they'd been living through this nightmare for twenty years and had probably gone through this process hundreds of times without incident.) At the moment, he and Camelia were at the back of the line, a few yards in front of the entrance and a few dozen yards before the screening gates, next to some ice sculptures of dolphins. Funny, that! Dolphins. How did dolphins make it into this world's habitat while things like skunks fell back into mythology—unless this art _was_ of mythology?

They hadn't come straight to the hospital: Camelia had stopped off at her flat to change into something more practical and put on some shoes. "I hope one of the boys from containment likes pumps," she'd said cheerfully. It got the Doctor wondering, though:

"Hey—do you still have . . ." He made a pistol of his hand when he was sure no one else was looking.

"Oh! Yes, of course I do." Seeing him grimace she sent him an annoyed glance and asked, "What about you? Where's your . . .?"

"What? I don't carry! Not ever!"

"Not like that, I meant that—thing.—You had something back at the club you used on the doors."

"Ohhh!" He stuck his hand into his coat and pulled it out. "You mean this!"

Her eyes lit up. "And what's that?" she asked, reaching to take it.

"Hey!" He yanked it away protectively and gave her a reproving look. "It's a screwdriver."

She cocked an eyebrow. _"Screwdriver."_

"Well—sonic."

She eyed the end skeptically. She looked back at him. "You _do_ know what a screwdriver _is,_ don't you?"

"Ahh—"

". . . A thing that _drives in screws?_ . . ."

"Hey, it does that!" Her eyes danced. "Just . . . sonically."

"And also, apparently, opens doors."

"Among other things." He slipped it back into his coat. "Coming back to you, though: Does everyone on Aurora carry pistols to crowded clubs, or just you?" He said "pistols" as quietly as possible, though no one around them seemed to be listening anyway.

She grinned. "Just me."

"That wasn't really meant as a compliment."

"And yet: it was. Most girls do go out armed, but not with anything much more powerful than a buzzer. My sponsor's host teacher, I told you, gave me a few of his old firearms while I was at university. He fought in the last war and he liked to keep well-stocked. Wanted me to have something to defend myself against infected." She grew quiet. "He was good. I liked him."

There was a long pause as she appeared to sink deep into memory. The Doctor didn't want to interrupt her thoughts, but after a few seconds he could stand it no longer: "I'm sorry, your 'sponsor'?"

"Yes. I had two, actually. Eddie Trisk and Jean something. They were partners—just don't tell anyone," she added, winking.

"But what do you mean? How do you have a sponsor?—or _sponsors,_ rather."

"What do _you_ mean? _I_ just mean sponsors like everyone's sponsors. Even I'm a sponsor. That's what I was doing on Gettys III, in fact—"

"Shhh, hold on!" He held up his hand and nodded in the direction of the booths.

Most of the doctors and technicians were behind the gates where they could, in theory, avoid potential infection from unstamped citizens; but one dark-haired nurse had stepped into the sea of people and appeared to be scanning the crowd with her eyes.

"Now, what's she looking for?" he wondered aloud. She wasn't looking at their faces but at their midsections.

Her eyes stopped wandering, and she went straight to a raggedy-looking man in coveralls. "Excuse me, sir?"

The man appeared disconcerted the moment he saw her coming. He shifted uncomfortably. ". . . Yes, ma'am?"

"Can you tell me your name, sir?"

He shrugged. "Braden Forrest."

"Are you from Hecate, Mr. Forrest?"

His eyes darted to the left. ". . . _No."_

"Do you have your key on you, sir?"

"What key?"

"Sir, I think it's best you come with me to have some more tests done."

"No, thank you."

"I have to insist. I think you may be at risk."

"I'm fine. I'm just going through that gate or booth thing, an' I'll be fine."

"I'm sorry, but I feel we should have a look at you as soon as possible. You realize you're not the only one you're affecting by refusing to come." When the man still looked uneasy, she said, "Sir, if you don't come with me, I may have to call for a security escort."

He was breathing hard now. His eyes flitted round the room and his fingers twitched. Finally he nodded.

"Thank you. If you'll just follow me—"

But the moment she turned her back he was gone, sprinting towards the exit as fast as he could push through the crowd. She heard him, whirled around, seemed about to shout, then gave up and drew a long, irritated breath. Aware that the people around her were now watching in extreme confusion, she gathered her dignity as best she could, turned, and took off at a brisk pace for the booths.

The man had been Hecatian, anyone could see that. And there was no more obvious reason for the nurse to single him out—unless it was no longer medically sound to wear coveralls.

"You said that no one's allowed to go to Hecate, not without special permission?" asked the Doctor.

"That's right."

"But people are allowed to come _from_ Hecate."

"Usually."

Ohhhh! It didn't make any sense before: If you wanted to quarantine the one place that wasn't diseased you kept people from coming _and _going, to protect everyone involved. Clearly, though, the Hecatians didn't feel particularly protected. Something was wrong.

He pulled out his screwdriver. "Okay! That's enough waiting around, I think." His buzzed it over the two of them.

"What are you doing _now?"_

He peered at the reading. Yep. All good. "Taking a med scan. Looks like we're both fine. Come on!"

"Wha—but we haven't been stamped!"

"Yeah, well . . . to be honest, that was never gonna happen. Can't risk being x-rayed on a Class 5 planet."

"What?" He took off before she had a chance to finish her question, though, and it was all she could do to keep up with him.


	4. Chapter 4

Jay sat with his head propped up on one arm, the flesh on his face becoming gradually molded to the shape of his fist as he gazed up at a dozen different screens of surveillance feed. Nothing exciting. Surprise, surprise. He was losing his vision for nothing.

He tapped his key and brought its holographic interface to life. He rotated his arm slightly, found the clock, and groaned.

The door beeped and Jay turned in his seat to see a young doctor with a face screwed into a permanent "concerned frown" come in with his breakfast.

"Berin. My hero. What do you have for me? . . . OH, yes!" He accepted, with reverence, a plate of fried grange-meats with a side of hot, greasy chips.

"You're welcome."

"What makes today so special?"

"We were told we could take off a shift." He didn't look especially pleased about it. Jay might have been curious, except that Berin never looked happy anyway and the scent off the chips was delightfully overwhelming.

"That's great, great . . ."

Berin looked about to say something when the door beeped again, opening a crack as a smiling face peered inside. ". . . Hi! John Smith, health inspector!" He flashed a badge. "Can I come in?"

"Uh . . . sure . . ."

"Thank you!" Smith didn't exactly fit the health inspector type, stepping out from behind the door in a trench coat and pinstripe suit, but Jay lost interest in the man when he saw the girl that came in after him. Not so much because she looked even weirder—probably trying to make some punk statement with that hair—as because of how she looked in general.

He smiled. She smiled back.

"You need anything from me?"

Smith donned a pair of glasses and leaned forward to scrutinize the security feed. "Yeah, maybe . . . Tell me, how many cameras link to this room?"

"About forty," said Jay, still looking at the girl.

"Forty! Are they all for different rooms?"

"What?"

Smith removed the glasses. "I _said,_ do all the cameras cover a different room?"

"What, you mean one per room?"

"Yes."

"No."

Smith was about to say something when Berin interrupted. "Excuse me, if you're a health inspector, what are you doing in here?"

"Just . . . mandatory." Smith shrugged. "I know it's a bit weird, but . . . no stone unturned, that sort of thing."

"It wouldn't be the first security room to house suspicious activity," said the girl, and winked at Jay. He shot a triumphant glance at Berin, who left in the room in disgust.

Smith, oblivious, peered intently at the screens through his glasses and wondered aloud: "Top floor! I notice there's no footage of the top floor in any of the surveillance rooms, is there a reason for that?"

"Oh, we've got the top floor. Here!" Jay tapped the screen.

Smith blinked. "Right! But—I meant floor 14."

"That _is_ floor 14."

"Is it?!" Now he looked really surprised. He leaned in close to examine the screen. Jay glanced back at his assistant, who shrugged helplessly.

He noticed her eyes dart to the side. She was looking at something—his chips. Ahhh. She was hungry? Jay smiled and popped one into his mouth. Her eyes followed it ravenously. He smiled again and ignored her. Best to keep her in the defensive position, right?

Smith still had his eyes on the screens. ". . . Ahhh, yes, I see. Well, that still leaves us with one floor missing."

"Ohhh. You mean the executive rooms? We don't really think of that as being the 'top floor' here."

The girl frowned. "Why not?"

"It's not complete. There's just a few rooms located on the south side of the hospital. We call it the tower."

"Ahh."

". . . And that's where the chancellor's son is, then?" asked Smith.

Jay frowned. "Yes, how did you know?"

He shrugged. "Well, we're not allowed up there; seemed to make sense. I thought it'd be a good idea to check for any footage of the area, just in case."

"Ah."

"There isn't any, is there?"

"Nah. I'm pretty sure the tower has its own security."

"Right! Good to know! Thanks for everything—sorry, what was your name?"

Idiot, it was on his nametag. "Jay."

"Jay! Thanks, Jay!" He turned and made for the door.

"See you around . . . ?" Jay shot a meaningful glance at the girl.

". . . Maybe." She smirked coquettishly and shut the door behind her.

Jay grinned. He rotated the chair back round to the desk to finish eating—only to find his plate gone.

* * *

"Jerk." Camelia crammed another grange-meat into her mouth. "Probably picked that up from some stupid manual. You don't starve a mark, you _offer_ her your food before she swipes it off you! Seriously, do you not want any of this?"

"Floor 14 . . . How could he mean floor 14?"

"Look, I'm fine if you want to let me have it, but you couldn't have eaten since we left the club."

"I had a lot of shuttle food. Did you _see_ fourteen floors before we came in?"

"No. Which is so odd. Because normally I keep a journal of all the floor counts of buildings I enter. Guess I must have left it in my other coat." She devoured a mouthful of chips. "You were right, though, the chancellor's son is off-limits even to health inspectors. —Hey, where are you going?"

"Downstairs."

"Why? I thought the whole point was to go _upstairs_ and spy on—hi!" she greeted a passing nurse. The Doctor urged her into the stairwell. "But I _thought,"_ she repeated, in a lower voice, "the whole point was to go upstairs and spy on Barkhoff."

"That was before."

"Before what?"

He paused halfway down the steps. "Do you remember that man, the Hecatian, who left the hospital in a panic?"

"Yes . . ."

"Didn't you wonder if he might be able to explain what made him so upset?"

"I might have if you hadn't run off so fast."

"I decided to stay in the hospital because I didn't think we'd be able to catch up to him. Now it looks like we may not have to."

"What do you mean?"

He took a deep breath. "Because, on one of the screens, I saw him being taken down this hallway."

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure it was him?"

"Absolutely."

"Was he conscious?"

"No. He was taken on a stretcher."

"So . . . why are we going downstairs? You know where he's at?"

"I think I do . . ." he said, and fled down the steps.

They covered four flights of stairs and stopped in front of a set of gray doors. "What's this?" asked Camelia.

"The basement above the basement. There are only thirteen ground floors but the security says there's fourteen because there's obviously _something_ down there they've got to keep track of. Look: No label, no windows."

"And you think that means it's a secret floor?"

"No—" He tried the handle. _"—That's_ why I think it's a secret floor: Locked."

"Of course it's locked, they're not going to let just anyone barge through. Doesn't mean there's anything _weird_ going on."

"Good! Then they won't mind if we look around." He slipped out the psychic paper and pressed it against the key pad. The door beeped open and the doctor stepped through. Camelia swallowed her last chip and set the plate down as quietly as possible before following.

They were in a small concrete room, barely furnished, with two doors leading out from it. The Doctor went to the door on the right and peered inside.

"Some kind of office," he thought aloud as he stepped in. Camelia was close at his heels, but the office turned out to be too small to hold two, it was so crammed full of file cabinets. All of which were locked.

"Huh." She was looking at the office computer. "Does that look like it's been used to you?"

"Yes. Why?"

"It has to be at least ten years old. They don't even _make_ computers with monitors anymore."

"Really!" He pulled out the screwdriver and aimed it at the console. "Ach! Deadlocked." He put it away. "Why would they use an old computer, then?"

"I don't know. Why would they use _file_ cabinets?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I dunno; why _wouldn't_ they use file cabinets?"

"Because there's virtually no limit to the data you can store on your wrist. And it's certainly _faster."_

"But not as secure . . ."

"Hm?"

"Any computer network in the world can be hacked. But paper, if you can't get it physically in your hand, is completely safe."

She nodded slowly. ". . . And . . . the computer . . . it's not hooked _up_ to the network, then . . ."

"What do you mean?"

"All the new computers are automatically linked directly to the sphere. Government cryptographers can, in theory, retrieve data from anywhere in the world—you know, if they have the time and the energy."

He frowned, thinking, and made his way back through the bare reception area to the other door. "So, a room filled with information _utterly_ inaccessible to the outside world . . . I think I'd like to know what's behind this door, wouldn't you?" His companion just folded her arms uncomfortably and watched in silence as he applied the screwdriver to the door's lock.

It gave way easily, opening onto pitch black. Camelia stuck her head out into it.

"Ever read a Gorvian horror novel?" she whispered.

"Can't say as I have . . ."

"Excellent! Then you can go first."

He peered a moment longer, lost in thought, then finally blinked. "Right. Yes. Have you got a torch?"

She wrinkled her nose. "You've got a magic all-purpose badge and screwdriver but you don't carry a _torch_ in that ridiculous coat?" He opened his mouth to protest but she'd already pulled one out of her pocket and handed it to him.

He tapped it on and directed the beam into the darkness. Bars, there were bars on the side—and movement. Camelia nearly jumped. The light had fallen on a monkey, sitting quietly in a cage, that glanced up placidly into the light and then down at its toes. The Doctor flicked the light to the other side: More cages. There were cats, mice, rats, fish, dogs that stood up and wagged their tails when they saw the light, and even an assortment of reptiles.

The Doctor swept the light around the room till he found a switch and turned on the overhead lights. _"That's_ better, _hullo!"_

"Thank you," said Camelia. "What _is_ this place?"

"A laboratory?"

"They have to use a secret floor in a general hospital to experiment on animals?"

The Doctor gave her back her torch and walked further into the lab. It wasn't a particularly large room, but there were specimens from almost every class in the animal kingdom. Small species, of course, but still—very thorough. About half of the animals had red marks painted on them, presumably to separate the experiments from the control groups.

He narrowed his eyes. Something was missing. "Camelia, come here a moment? . . . Tell me, does anything seem odd to you?"

She gave him a look. "I _think_ we're standing in it."

"No, no . . . Not just that. Something else . . ."

She folded her arms again and glanced behind her nervously. _"No._ Just tell me, what is it? . . . Is it the lack of staff?"

"No . . . Already thought of that, they don't _have_ to be here to watch the animals, they've got cameras." He pointed one out.

"We're on _camera?!"_

"Oi! only for the scientific record. I doubt they send the feed to the main video room."

"Good point. . . What were you saying was odd, though?"

"I dunno . . ."

"Well, when you figure it out be sure and tell me, because you're giving me the shivers!"

"Right . . ." He took a few more steps into the room, Camelia following tentatively behind, eyes darting round the room. The dogs went on plaintively wagging their tails and some birds cocked their heads in their direction. There were cabinets full of vials and more ancient computer monitors lying around on big countertops. Suddenly it occurred to him. "OH!" he burst, grabbing his forehead.

Camelia fell over backwards. "ACH!"

"OH, what's this! . . . They're fine, they're _all_ FINE! _That's_ what's wrong!" He noticed Camelia, who'd propped herself up on her hands and was gasping for breath. "Oh! you alright?" he asked, offering a hand.

She ignored it and got up on her own. "If you do that again, I _will _shoot you. Phew!" She put a hand to her still-pounding heart. "What did you notice? What's 'fine'?"

"The animals. Didn't you notice? They're all fine, they're all healthy. You'd think a few would look like they'd be suffering from some toxic chemical or other, wouldn't you? No! All of them, even the ones that have been marked."

"Maybe the marks don't have to do with experiments? Maybe they just came like . . . ach, no, ignore me." She rolled her eyes. "They couldn't have _all_ come like that, obviously."

"Exactly. So why keep them down here? Here, in a _human_ hospital. Plenty of other places to keep a bunch of lab rats, surely." He eyed a door across the room. _"I_ think . . . we've got more exploring to do."

"Oof."

"And put that _gun_ away, don't think I didn't notice!"

She sighed and holstered her weapon reluctantly. "Alright, but if we run into any infected, you're not going to stop me."

He didn't argue, but he didn't answer, either. Instead he turned his attention to the door. Biohazard, it read. He'd heard that one before. He peered through the window.

"Hey! What are you two doing in here?"

They both jumped. A woman, the dark-haired nurse from before, stood in the lab entrance. "You heard me," she barked. "What are you doing?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Well?" demanded the nurse. "What are you doing in here?"

"Hi!" The Doctor pulled out the psychic paper, thinking fast as he did—Health Inspectors? Secret Service? Fellow doctors? "We're . . . biologists. Management sent us to take a look."

She didn't look impressed. "I wasn't aware we had new people coming in."

"Yeah, sorry, that's our fault, I'm afraid. We tried to check in but no one was here, so we just sort of . . . helped ourselves inside."

"We were told you'd be here to meet us," added Camelia reproachfully.

"Yes, we were, weren't we!"

The nurse narrowed her eyes. "And you just waltzed in here without lab coats, then."

"Didn't think we'd need them. We were just looking for a receptionist."

"You honestly thought we'd have a _receptionist?"_ she scoffed.

He drew a blank. ". . . Yes, why not?"

"Just where do you think you are?"

". . . In a secret underground laboratory filled with animal experiments?"

She folded her arms. "Alright, smart guy, if you're really from management—what name did they give you to come see?"

"Ahh!" He pulled out the paper again and held it up to read. Camelia nearly blew her cover when she saw the words appear. ". . . Nurse Medley!" he said triumphantly.

She looked surprised—but not convinced. "Okay . . . so you know my name. Now tell me yours."

"John Smith, and this is Camelia Gangway."

Medley's wrist shot up towards her face. "Security, I need an ID check for a John Smith and Camelia Gangway in connection with Project Grady."

The Doctor groaned. "Aww, no, see, you don't wanna do that . . ."

"_This is Security. No record of John Smith or Camelia Gangway in conjunction with Project Grady."_

"Thank you." Medley switched off her key and pulled out a pistol similar to Camelia's. "Hands on your heads." They complied despondently.

Camelia licked her lips. "You know, I can think of a way this situation could have been avoided—"

"_Don't."_

"Actually, I was going to say, if you could just come up with a bloody name. 'John Smith' only SCREAMS alias. But the other thing, too."

"Be quiet," said Medley. "Tell me who you are."

"Yes. Ah, this is Camelia Gangway. That part _wasn't_ a lie. And I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor—"

"Just the Doctor," said Camelia quickly. "Trust me, you don't want to go into that."

"Whatever. What are the two of you doing here? How did you get in?"

"We _walked_ in."

Medley narrowed her eyes. "Who are you with?"

The Doctor scoffed. "With? We're not with anyone, we're on our own!"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"_Help!"_

All three whipped their heads round in the direction of the cry.

The Doctor and Camelia glanced at the nurse. Medley quickly reasserted her hold on the gun. "Don't!" But the Doctor didn't relax.

And then, again: _"Help me!"_ The Doctor ran to the door.

"Don't! Stop!" Medley fired a shot that shattered a glass cabinet behind his head. Camelia whipped her pistol out and blasted the nurse before the Doctor could protest.

"Oh, calm down, she's just stunned," she said. "You were investigating?" The Doctor groaned in disgust but continued to the door and pulled out the screwdriver to unlock it.

It came to with a resounding _clang_ that made both Camelia and the Doctor jump. He reached for the handle and pulled, bold but not overbold. "Yes?" he said. "Hullo, is there someone in here?"

"Help!" someone sobbed. "Help, help me, please!"

The Doctor proceeded inside. Camelia glanced at Medley and chased after him. The room was full of heavy fog and the lights were off.

She coughed. "It is marked biohazard," she hissed. "What's in this fog, d'you think?"

"Never mind that, what's on the _ground?"_

The fog at their feet curled back, revealing—under a shaft of light filtered through from the lab—a the collapsed figure of a scaly-green man.

Camelia gave a shout and fell back, fumbling for her pistol. She pulled it out and fired—too high. Then too low.

The Doctor ducked and sputtered. "Will you stop it, you're gonna get us all killed!"

"Sorry, sorry!" She steadied herself. "Forgive me for panicking in an underground secret laboratory filled with fog and _a horrendously contagious PLAGUE!_ . . . And it's on _stun!"_

"Well, put it away anyhow and come here for a second—mind the infected, I think there might be more lying around."

But she just stood in the doorway, eyes on the greened-over man. "And you're just walking in there? Have you touched any of them?"

"No! You'd be able to tell if I had, wouldn't you?"

"That's true . . ."

"Come on, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Camelia was still scrutinizing the infected man. "Is he dead, or asleep?"

"Oh, he's still breathing." She heard a familiar buzz and a blue glow emanated briefly out of the fog. "Seems the fog is some sort of sedative."

"And we're breathing it?" She had a vision of flopping over unconscious onto an infected body and going green.

"Can't work that fast, Braden's still with us—aren't you, Braden?"

Camelia peered into the room to see the Doctor kneeling beside a man, the Hecatian they'd seen upstairs, who was shivering violently.

"Please get me out of here," begged Braden.

"Right! No problem. Come on, Camelia, let the man through!"

The Doctor helped the man to his feet and guided him out the door, from which Camelia was only too happy to step away while she fetched a stool for him.

"Where am I?" Braden asked.

"You're still in the hospital. Do you remember being brought down here?"

He nodded. "Yes. I mean—I dunno. Hard to believe it wasn't just a nightmare or something."

"Did they tell you why they wanted you?"

"No! There was that nurse—the one with long black hair. She wanted to know where I was from, see? She asked me some questions, she wanted to know if I was from Hecate—"

"_Is_ that what she was after?" asked the Doctor carefully.

"Look, I _just don't know!_ I _do_ know they want people from Hecate, though! It's not safe for us, not here!"

"Yeah, so I've noticed . . ." Still, the Hecatians didn't break into a green sweat, either. "So, if it's so _bad_—if you've known there was something going on even before coming to the hospital—why come to Aurora at all? Seems a bit risky, doesn't it?"

The man was aghast. "What do you think, that I'm making this up?"

"Wha—? No, no, no no—"

"I'm telling the truth, you have to believe me!"

"Look mate, we just pulled you out of a secret room in a secret basement of a public hospital," said Camelia flatly. "I think we're in something of a position to believe you."

He blinked. ". . . Right. Yes. Sorry. I'm sorry."

She softened. "It's okay. Just . . . we want to know _why_ you came here if you thought it was dangerous. That's all."

"Oh. Um. Okay." He slapped his knees and exhaled.


	6. Chapter 6

Lights flashed along the walls and an alarm blared. Barkhoff stood to his feet as Kreshner rushed by, grabbing his arm. "What's going on?"

"Wha—you're still here, sir?"

"Yes, I'm still here, of course I'm still here, does it look like I'm somewhere else? What's going on? Is it an outbreak?"

"No, it's nothing you have to worry about—"

"Kreshner, if you lie to me one more time I will _bury_ you."

Kreshner felt Barkhoff's hand tighten around his arm and resisted the urge to chin the chancellor right then and there. Instead, he gave in. "There's been a security breach. Someone made it into the lab downstairs."

"What? Get rid of them, then!"

"We don't know yet if they're with an agency."

"Then all the worse if they get away!"

"And all the likelier that they'll be missed." He pushed his glasses up his nose. "Please don't expect me to handle this myself, you hired me for my surgical skills, not my experience in the security of minor conspiracies. . . And, as a surgeon, I'll need to use that arm later."

Barkhoff narrowed his eyes and finally released Kreshner, whose hand had gone cold and purple. One day the chancellor would demand preemptive treatment. The doctor found himself half-hoping to be the one at the table when that happened. Realistically, though, the best revenge would come from leaching the man of his money.

"Thank you," he said, rubbing warmth back into his arm. "I've sent some people down to investigate—along with a former PR man to do damage control if need be."

"Good. What about the cure?"

Ahhh, yes; Barkhoff liked to labor under the delusion that progress was accelerated by intimidation. "We're all a bit _busy_ at the moment, sir."

"I thought you were close. I thought you had brought in more Hecatians. I'm not paying you to spin your wheels."

"No, you're not. But the Hecatians happen to be downstairs in the lab, so we'll be a bit short on results till we sort this out."

* * *

"It was through work, actually. They're always asking for . . . I dunno, experts or whatever, on geology and terraforming and the like. I needed work so I followed up on an advert."

"You're a geologist, then?" asked the Doctor.

"No, I'm in agriculture. Anything to do with the ground, that's all they need. One of my friends who came down is in coal mining. They say they need to compare notes with Hecatians 'cause they think the rhixis is summat to do with the planet itself. Maybe even how it was terraformed?"

The Doctor screwed his face. "How it was _terraformed? _ And it's taken this long for the problem to surface?"

"Well, _I_ dunno much about it, I've only just got here."

"You haven't had an interview yet?" asked Camelia.

"No, nothing! Just rang them up and asked if they still needed people."

"Rang who up?"

"Some blokes on the counsel."

"What, here in Ilythia?"

"Yeah . . . You're not saying the Ilythia counsel is on in this, are you?"

"It's a possibility." The Doctor rubbed his chin.

"Who did you think was behind it if not the government?" asked Camelia.

"Oh . . . I dunno."

"Hey, wait a minute," she said suddenly. "Who were those other people in the room, though? The infected? They weren't . . . Hecatians, surely?"

The Doctor shook his head. "No, I think they were."

"How? What makes you say that? Didn't you say the Hecatians never got sick? Or were you just making things up?"

"No, no!" said Braden quickly. "Hecatians _don't_ get sick. We don't _have_ any rhixis on Hecate."

She was aghast. "Then . . . then it _is_ to do with the planet! . . . Isn't it?"

The Doctor frowned. ". . . I don't know . . ." If rhixis was a symptom of geological conditions, then why make passage from the moon easy and passage back so difficult? It didn't make any sense. Unless Ilythian officials just really hated people from Hecate. "And you haven't heard anything about this?" he asked Camelia.

"About what?"

"About this, about any kind of . . . geological research to do with the disease? Doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would be kept quiet. You'd think after twenty years they'd like some good publicity. Give people back their faith in medical science." He frowned. "Have _you_ heard of any of this?"

"Well, no, I haven't, but . . . I'm not exactly the type to keep up with the _Surveyor_."

"Your key, can you use it to access the sphere?"

"Of course I can." She lifted her wrist and tapped on the display. "You want me to check his story?"

"If you don't mind."

She did a quick search. "Nothing. At least, no immediate results that look like anything more than conspiracy theories."

Braden fell back into frenzy. "What? But I'm telling you the truth, there were advertisements everywhere!"

The Doctor tried to calm him down. "Yes, listen, we believe you, we just need to understand. Did you learn about this research through the sphere or did the information come from somewhere else?"

"Um . . . no, not from the sphere, I don't think so. There were flyers around . . . and seminars. I listened to an Ilythian representative ask for volunteers at my work."

Camelia scoffed. "And you never even checked the sphere?"

"Not as crazy as you might think," the Doctor chided. "I told you, they don't even have wrist keys on Hecate. It's a simpler world."

"What do you use, then?" she exclaimed. "For . . . anything? Do you just wait till you can find a computer before you phone anyone?"

"Well . . . sometimes we take our computers with us," said Braden slowly, confused.

"What?! Your computers are _mobile?"_

"Alright, both of you, just _stop,_" the Doctor ordered. "We need to know what's going on here and now."

"You mean pool our resources and investigate."

"Exactly."

"Good idea!" She turned and headed for the exit.

"Hey, where're you going?"

"Not far."

"Camelia!" He followed her out into the bare reception room to find she'd gone into the tiny office and sat down at the desk. "You can't get in, that's deadlocked, remem—"

Beep! _"Identification confirmed. Welcome, Audrian Medley."_

The Doctor paused, mouth still open in mid-sentence, frowning.

She waved a wristband in the air. "Compliments of Nurse Medley. My sponsors didn't send me to school for my looks, you know." She tacked away at the keyboard.

Braden, shadowing the Doctor, looked at him and mouthed, "Sponsor?" Irritated, the Doctor could only shrug.

"Okay, what am I looking for?" Camelia asked aloud.

"Recently opened files."

She sifted through material and looked down at the controls, scanning the buttons carefully for the characters she wanted. Tack. Tick, tack.

Tick tack tack.

Clearly the keyboard was not a major part of her generation. The Doctor pulled out the screwdriver and buzzed open a string of file windows.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, do you mind?"

She sighed and removed herself from the chair.

"Thank you," he said, sitting down.

"And what are we supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Keep an eye on the door. And on Medley."

* * *

"How did they get in?"

"It looks like they may have just used a stolen key—look, it's showing Medley's signature opening the door at 1100 hours."

Captain Warsaw frowned. "But didn't Medley report them there five minutes later?"

"Someone else must have opened the door for her."

"No—_look_ at the chart!"

"Sorry, sir." The officer peered at it. "This is saying Medley's ID was used, the door was closed, and then it was opened again with the same key. From the outside. Like they had a duplicate."

The captain sighed and rolled his eyes. "This is why we're going tagged."

"No, sir, please—this isn't _possible._ Multiple signatures aren't tolerated in the sphere; they would both become invalid and the ID automatically reported to the government for evaluation."

The captain's eyes flashed. "What?!"

"It's been that way for at least ten years. No one's managed to break the system since it was first established."

"Until now, you mean." He opened his own key and tapped in a note to pass on to their superiors. If there was no record of similar ID duplication, this kind of security breach could indicate a new and unimaginably dangerous offensive. He didn't care who found out what he was doing for Barkhoff, this had to be reported.


	7. Chapter 7

Camelia dangled her legs over the side of the lab table, gazing idly in the direction of the unconscious Medley. She knew she shouldn't daydream when Medley's chances of waking increased by the minute, but it was so boring waiting for the Doctor to finish reading.

Braden shuffled nervously, arms folded across his chest. "You mean we really can't take the computer anywhere else?"

"No! . . . Sorry, but computers on-planet are fixed." She sighed.

"Who are you? Both of you, I mean. Who is it you're working for?"

"No one, it's just us." She realized that might not be the most comforting thing to hear. _"I'm_ not working with anyone, anyway. He says he's not, but who knows, really?"

Braden gaped. Hm, on second thought, that might have been even less comforting. "How long have you worked with him?"

"Ahhh . . ." She wanted to lie and she wanted to be truthful, but most of all she wanted to avoid another of Braden's panics. ". . . Well, long enough to know he just points himself at trouble and shoots. And he has a lot of experience handling dangerous situations." This was of course speculation, but she doubted anyone could blame her for coming to such a conclusion.

"Where is he from? Hecate or Aurora?"

"Ahhh . . . Hecate, I think."

"How do you know?"

She started to say something and stopped. How _did_ she know? She met him on the shuttle leaving the space station for Aurora, and he hadn't appeared to know anything about keys or rhixis. None of that was proof, though.

She remembered how he'd behaved with Braden. He didn't seem any less estranged from the Hecatian than from her. And then there was something else . . .

"Braden," she said suddenly, "You said you learned about this job offer at a seminar?"

"Well, through various things."

"Did the speaker have to explain what rhixis was to you?"

"No, of course not. We're not thick."

She glanced up at him. ". . . So you do know what rhixis is. You, and everyone else on Hecate, I mean."

"Well, by and large."

"You don't suppose there are any countries on Hecate where word just doesn't get round, do you?"

"Sure, maybe."

"Speaking _our_ language, though?"

"Seems unlikely. What are you getting at?"

She looked back down at the unconscious nurse. "Nothing." Nothing indeed. Someone had some explaining to do.

_Bang! bang! bang!_ She was jolted out of her thought by a hard rap at the front entrance. "Open up! Security!"

Camelia jumped to her feet and drew out her pistol. "Doctor!"

"I heard them, just give me a second!" he shouted from the office.

"You." She pointed to Braden. "Is there another way out?"

"Huh? What?" His eyes were wide and confused. "How should I know?"

"Look for one."

He nodded—and didn't move.

"_. . . Now!"_

He jolted and ran back through the laboratory; Camelia knew he wasn't the greatest choice of scout, but she had a feeling he'd make an even worse soldier. Meanwhile she grabbed a spanner, wedged it through the door handle to stall the newcomers, and tried to remember if the door was a push or a pull. There was no way to lock it if they had clearance to come in. All she could do was stand against the wall with her weapon drawn and wait for either the Doctor to come out of the office or security to burst through the door.

There was a soft beep as the door unlocked. Someone pulled at it from the outside, but with the spanner stretched across the door frame they couldn't move it more than a few centimeters. The door began to shake violently as they grew more and more frustrated, then stopped. They must have another plan for getting in, she thought.

The Doctor ran out of the office. "Alright, I've got it—put that away!"

She sent him a pointed look and tilted her head in the direction of the door indicatively. Was he insane?!

"If that's security then they'll have real weapons, not little blue pistols! And if you fire on them what's to stop them shooting back?!"

She groaned as she put it away. _"Fine._ What do you propose we do, then?"

He didn't answer. "Where's Braden?" he asked, heading back into the lab. Camelia jogged after him.

"I told him to find a way out!"

"There's no way out, our best bet is to hide and wait for them to walk past, then make our escape."

"And what if they leave a guard by the door?"

"Then!—just!—I'm just trying to come up with ideas, alright?" he sputtered.

"Okay . . . they're just _bad_ ideas," she muttered under her breath.

"Braden!" cried the Doctor as the Hecatian turned up from behind a corner. "Find anything?"

"No! What do we do?"

"We hide, we wait for them to walk past, we creep back to the exit and we shoot any guards we find there," said Camelia firmly.

"We _stun_ any guards we find there," the Doctor corrected.

"Of course."

"Better hurry, then."

* * *

Sparks flew as the sergeant cut steadily through the door with the blowtorch, Captain Warsaw and six other men waiting behind him with rifles in hand. At last he finished an outline around the handle. "Clear."

"Good," said Warsaw. "Let us in."

The sergeant thrust the butt of his weapon into the outlined area and sent it flying free of the door into the inside of the room. Through the hole where it had been they could see a spanner lying inside the door handle. The sergeant wedged his rifle into the hole and used it as leverage to open the door.

"Alright, Grif and Simmons, you stand guard."

"Yes, sir."

"The rest of you, search the place. Bring me whoever you find."

The rest of the team filed into the room, rifles cocked, the captain taking up the rear. He noticed the door to the office was open and stepped inside.

Wow. He'd never actually been inside the lab before; the computer was ancient. He peered at the screen.

Behind his back, about fifteen feet away, a panel in the ceiling shifted. Then, just as quietly, it lifted out of view. A pair of socks appeared in its place, descending—inch by inch—into the reception room. Camelia's face and arms appeared last of all, till she could be lowered no further. She gave a quick nod, dropped to the floor like a cat, and reached up to receive Braden's ankles as he likewise was lowered.

Warsaw doubted the computer had been left on by Medley, especially with the login up. He searched for recently opened folders.

His eyes widened. There it was, the project file, at the top of the list. He stood to his feet and turned around.

He heard something heavy fall to the floor. He left the office and found Grif and Simmons flat on their backs in the outer hall.

"Alright, everyone, they've escaped!" he shouted. "Dufresne, stay behind and try to revive Grif and Simmons! The rest of you, with me!"

His shout traveled up the stairs, where three figures had been quietly tip-toeing up the concrete steps. All at once they broke into a run. Heavy footfalls echoed behind them.

The Doctor slammed himself into the door of the first floor. "No, no, no, they'll be expecting that!" Camelia yelled, then winked as she put a finger to her lips and shooed them through. Braden looked a bit confused, but they managed to get him through the door before the soldiers appeared and the door closed behind them as they scampered out into the light of the corridor.

"Why did she do that?" gasped Braden

"Diversion!" she said breathlessly. "Make them think we're going upstairs!"

"Did it work?"

"I dunno, would you like me to check?! . . . Oh, excuse me!" she yelled at a doctor who stared after them as they ran. She slowed to a jog so she could keep talking: "Hey, did-you-know-you've-got-a-secret-floor-with-illegal-experimentation-and-now-someone's-private-army-is-after-us-to-shut-us-up-okay-gotta-run!" She took off with a fresh burst of speed to catch up to the Doctor and Braden. The soldiers had just appeared in the hallway and she was seriously starting to regret slowing down.

"STOP!" they ordered.

She didn't waste her breath on a retort. Her lungs were burning as it was. When she did speak it would be to ask the Doctor where he thought he was taking them. She was pretty sure he was just making this whole escape up as he went.

They turned a corner, then another. Nurses and doctors cleared a path for them with exclamations of surprise and occasional indignation.

"Sorry, sorry!" the Doctor would shout. "Mercenaries behind us, call the police, please!" Camelia would add.

Braden veered off and ran into an elevator, frantically pushing the "down" button. "No, no, no!" the Doctor cried. When the Hecatian didn't respond he threw his arms round his waist and yanked him away from the doors as they began to open.

And now they were on the floor. Camelia caught up to them in time to help the Doctor drag Braden to his feet. "Sorry Braden, elevators are risky business when your enemy can stop them working."

"Sorry!"

"It's fine, just run!" A blast of energy flew past their heads and knocked over a tray table down the hall. Great, now they're shooting at us, thought Camelia. The Doctor took the next turn, grabbing Braden by the elbow to steer him in the right direction, then stopped abruptly on finding a fork in the road.

"Right!" he said, skidding on his heels. "You go that way, you go that way! Run as fast you can!"

"What about you?" she demanded.

"I'll go _that_ way," he said, giving her a look and nodding towards the remaining corridor.

"Oh. Right." She realized how stupid she must have sounded. "What about after?"

"Just!—Meet me back at the club! Braden, you just get out of the hospital! Now go!"

Camelia took off obediently down the lefthand hallway, then glanced over her shoulder—to see the Doctor going back the way they had come. No, no, no! She banked hard and ran back to the fork. He was supposed to keep running, what was he doing?! Negotiating? Giving them up?

She stopped just before stepping out into the crossroads again, though, spinning her arms to keep from falling off balance into view of whoever lay beyond. What if—crazy idea—he _was_ giving them up? She had a fleeting vision of a vague masterminded plan with the Doctor and his mysterious background at its center. If she had three seconds to think it through rationally she would've seen how idiotic this was, but at the moment she was too busy trying to do too many things at once. And before she had time for anything else, a soldier stepped out from behind the corner and grabbed her by the throat. "Hello."

She tried to reach for her pistol, but he had already grabbed it out of her holster. "That's enough for now," he said, and fired it into her stomach. There was an explosion of pain, and she passed out.

Warsaw spoke into his key. "We have two hostiles in custody. Repeat, we have two hostiles in custody."

"Weren't there only two?" came the reply.

"Negative. Nurse Medley reported only two intruders but we chased three out of the basement. Third hostile is still at large."

"Well, find him!"

"Yes, sir." He nodded to two officers, who proceeded down the hallway at a steady jog. "I've sent Church and Flowers on that. Permission to interrogate hostiles?"

"By all means."

Warsaw turned off the link. "Alright, get them out of here. And Lopez? . . . Go check on Dufresne, he hasn't picked up in a while."

* * *

Kreshner was dying to know what was happening downstairs but he didn't dare ask Barkhoff directly. He knew _something_ was up: Medley wasn't responding to his messages and now the chancellor looked like he was preparing to leave.

"Going so soon, sir?" he asked.

"Yes. Afraid so. Someone's just called for an emergency council session and I've gotta dash."

"Oh, really? What for?"

"I don't know, they wouldn't say."

"That's a shame. We just started Grady on a new treatment that looks promising. I was hoping to speed up the process by treating a sample of your blood with the same solution."

Barkhoff hesitated. "Don't you have some of my blood in storage?"

"No, we've gone through all of it with similar tests."

The chancellor thought this through, clearly torn. "Fine," he said at last. "Let's get it over with, quick as possible."

"Thank you." Kreshner went into his office and locked the door. He sat down and called the technician on his key.

"Yes?"

"I need you to take a blood sample from the chancellor. He thinks we're using it to test a potential cure for rhixis."

"He thinks?"

"I just need you to keep him in the hospital that much longer than he wants to be here. Keep me apprised if anything happens. And if he asks where I've gone, tell him I'm attending to some major developments in the cure or whatever gobbledygook you can come up with. He has the medical understanding of a neanderthal, so you should be safe."

"Where are you going, though?"

"Out. I need some air." If Barkhoff needed to leave the hospital, then so did he. If the chancellor thought the authorities were closing in, which was the most likely explanation of all the facts, then it would be wise to get as far away from Ilythia Major as he possibly could, and satisfying to boot if he could keep the chancellor there long enough to get caught.


	8. Chapter 8

"Mph!" Camelia grunted as her back hit the wall of the cupboard and she slumped down to a sitting position, hands and feet tied in front of her. Someone took the gag out of her mouth and she rolled her aching jaw. "Hello."

The Doctor glared from where he sat, also bound. "You were supposed to run away!"

"So were you."

"Be quiet," said the officer in charge, and they closed their mouths. The sergeant had something in his hands on the table in front of him, out of sight from where Camelia sat. The officer addressed the two of them: "Alright, let's get this over with. What are your names—hey, hold on!" He was looking at the table. "Where did you get all that?" he asked the sergeant.

"It was on the guy. In his coat."

"What, _all_ of it?"

"No, the pistol I found on the girl."

"Where did he put all of this?"

"I found them in his pockets—look, I'm as lost as you are!"

Camelia frowned and mouthed to the Doctor: "What are they talking about?"

"Hey, sit tight!" ordered the officer, cocking his rifle in her direction. She fell back against the wall obediently. "You," he said to the Doctor, "what's your name?"

"I'm the Doctor. . . Just the Doctor."

"The Doctor," he echoed skeptically. "Do you want to tell me what this is?"

"Sonic screwdriver?"

"What?"

"It's . . . sonic."

"And this?"

"Subfrequential biostabilizer."

"And this?"

"Collectible?"

"And this? . . . And this?"

"Helic pulsation amplifier . . . Stethoscope . . . Quasiextradimensional folder . . . Metaradiometric spanner . . . Laser spanner . . . Synchronic replicator . . . Handwarmer . . ."

"And what about this?" The officer held up a small ring. "I suppose this is a polyidiosyncratic hammer?"

"Ahh, no, that's a biodamper . . ." Camelia couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

"And this?"

"That's my watch."

"And I suppose you draw on this." He held up the psychic paper.

"Eh . . ." He shrugged vaguely.

The sergeant held up a key on a rope, which the officer took and exhibited skeptically. "And what in the world is this?"

"It's a key."

"A key to what?"

"My . . . transport."

"What exactly do you do?"

"Freelance work."

"Alright, smart guy, let's see your identification."

"He doesn't have one," said Camelia.

"Be quiet." He frowned at her, then reached down and ripped the key right off her arm.

"Ow!"

He handed it to the sergeant, who scanned it quickly. "Camelia Gangway, University of Nysa, citizen of Ilythia. No criminal record."

"Alright, Camelia, who is this man? Is he your lover?"

"_Huagh!"_ She saw the Doctor's face and checked herself. "Alright, sorry, not like that, but . . . still. Blegh. No, he is most certainly not my lover."

"Then he's an old schoolmate."

"We just met today. —And hey, you protect a secret underground laboratory in a public hospital: Why are _you_ asking the questions?" He raised his weapon and she closed her mouth again.

* * *

Lopez found Grif and Simmons still unconscious outside the lab door. He couldn't believe Dufresne hadn't pulled them inside and shut the door when he was ordered to look after them. They didn't want anyone else stumbling across Barkhoff's precious experiments, did they?

"Hey, Dufresne! . . . Frank? You in here?" He stepped through, peering round corners as he went. "If you think is funny you're gonna find out just how funny it is waking up with scalding hot coffee down your shirt, you read me? . . . Frank?" He noticed a door at the back of the laboratory had been left open. He heard Dufresne's voice grunting from inside and jogged forward. There was some kind of fog pouring out of the room. He coughed. "Dufresne! Now! I don't wanna have to drag you out!"

He pushed through the door rifle-first and was just about to go in when a shape formed rapidly in the fog. It threw itself straight into him, gazing vacantly with Dufresne's eyes and gasping numbly with Dufresne's mouth, and was inches away from Lopez's face before he even knew it was coming. "mmMMaaaaah . . ."

"AAAAAGH!" Lopez discharged five rounds, two that knocked Dufresne—what was left of him—backwards, one that hit his chin, and two that went into the ceiling as Lopez fell flat on his back. He turned over rapidly and floundered on his belly in a mad scramble to get away from the door, out of the lab, away from everything. Somehow he made it to his feet.

He felt something cold. Something on the back of his scalp, tingling and then cracking and then going numb in a feverish ache.

"No. No. No. NO!"

The sensation radiated out across his head and down his spine. His limbs went stiff and his guts went cold. His mouth went dry so fast his tongue seemed to shrivel up, and his brain simply died.

Or at least the higher functions died. The space in his skull that had served for so many years as the seat of a man's thoughts, hopes and dreams was gone forever. But there was a certain direction to his movements, a vague sensory response. There were warm bodies outside. And so he stumbled forward.

* * *

". . . but _actually,_ from a non-linear, _non-subjective_ viewpoint, it's more like a big ball of—"

"Hold on," the officer interrupted. "I asked you what your _job_ was."

"Well, it's . . . complicated."

"Clearly." Camelia arched an eyebrow. Something she'd been doing with remarkable consistency over the past ten minutes.

There was a sharp rap at the door, and the four of them all jumped simultaneously. The officer frowned and opened it a crack. "Yes?"

"It's Berin. Barkhoff sent me down to help with the interrogation."

The officer opened the door wider and Camelia realized, with an icy shiver, that the man outside was carrying a tray full of hypodermic needles. And that she thought she faintly recognized him.

"Do you need to see identification?" asked Berin.

"Yes."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wristband. No sooner had it passed into the officer's hand, however, then it flashed blue with electric current, stunning him where he stood and dropping him to the floor. The tray fell beside his body with a clatter as the technician pulled an instrument out of his pocket and fired it in the direction of the other soldier. Something glimmered in the light from out of the device, but the sergeant ducked out of the way.

. . . Only to trip and fall as Camelia kicked him in the calves. Berin fired again, and the glimmer hit its mark. The sergeant was knocked unconscious.

"What is that thing?" she asked.

"Veterinary spray. My sister works at a clinic."

"_Don't_ point it at me! just put it away—thank you."

"Sorry." He knelt down and began to untie them.

"Who are you?" asked the Doctor.

"My name's Berin Briggs. I'm a technician. Came down when I heard the craziest thing: Three people running like dogs through the hospital corridors, shouting for us to call the police, with our favorite new security guards at their heels."

"So you just came looking for us?" The Doctor was clearly impressed.

"I need someone to tell me what's going on. It's been obvious something's been off, ever since Barkhoff's first son died."

"Don't you mean, since his second son got rhixis?" asked Camelia.

"No, not that recent. His office set up shop here years ago." He helped her to her feet.

"How did you find us?"

"A hunch. I've found bootprints in this cupboard a few times before. And it wasn't the first place I looked, if I'm honest. Who _are_ you?"

The Doctor and Camelia exchanged glances. He decided to take the lead. "We are . . . two people . . . who found something we weren't supposed to see."

"Alright . . . Care to elaborate?"

"Yes! but, ahhh . . ." He waved his hand at the unconscious soldiers.

"Ahh, yes, you're right, we should do this once we're clear of the hospital."

"No, we can't leave," the Doctor said quickly. "There's still more to the puzzle. But we should find somewhere else to hide for the time being."

"Alright; you should probably leave your keys so they can't track us, then."

"Good—oh, no, wait, I can adjust them sonically to set off an alarm when they're being scanned. Here, Camelia . . ." He picked up the screwdriver and pointed it at her key for a few seconds before giving it back to her. He went to the table and began stuffing the other gadgets back into his pockets. "Where is Medley's key, by the way?"

"They'll probably be tracking that, too," Camelia pointed out.

"I know, this'll only take a second . . . Thank you." He held the key in one hand and the screwdriver in the other, flitting through holograms with a long buzz.

"What is he doing?" Berin asked.

"I'm downloading," said the Doctor.

"Did you find something?" asked Camelia, brightening.

"_Something,"_ he admitted. "But I don't understand it. Not yet. . . Right!" He put the key down and the screwdriver away. "Lead the way, Berin!"


	9. Chapter 9

Barkhoff slouched in the chair, his left hand tapping the armrest impatiently. "I thought you needed a _blood sample._ Are you preparing to drain me dry, or am I not paying you enough to move your feet?"

"It's the formula," the technician explained. "It's still got traces of rhixis in it so we have to be very careful about moving it. And we want to make sure we have this half of the test set up in advance so we can mix it with your blood immediately after we draw it out. The results are more likely to be accurate that way."

"I daresay they will be accurate enough. In case you haven't noticed, son, I'm in a hurry."

"Right, sir. I'll do my best."

Barkhoff narrowed his eyes. "Where's Kreshner?"

"Um, he's delivering a pseudostrain of the virus to a, um, specialist hyperthermic clinic—I mean, research center—a few miles from here to have it liquefied for analysis. Once it's been compounded he'll be on his way back, I think. Don't worry, it's nothing that can be traced back to you or any of this, it'll just look like regular rhixis research," he added hastily.

"Pseudostrain?"

"Yes, it's an artificial version of the virus. If it tests like the genuine article, then we know the rest of our research is accurate, and we can rule out any extraneous experiments that might take up time and resources. If that makes sense."

Barkhoff nodded. "I suppose."

"Shall I prepare the cart, sir?"

"Yes, please." The technician hurried out of the room.

* * *

The Doctor and Camelia slipped into a darkened room that smelled faintly, and unpleasantly, familiar. Berin came in behind them, turning on the light and shutting the door. "What, no security cameras in the laundry room?" asked Camelia.

"I know. You would think," said Berin drily. They had just spent the past five minutes trying to predict each and every camera they came into contact with so the Doctor could hack it blind while they went past. "You should be fine in here for a few minutes. I have to turn in a report, I'll be right back."

"Thank you," said the Doctor. Berin nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.

As soon as he was gone, she asked: "Did you say you earlier you were using that to download something?"

"I was. First I saved it onto Medley's key, but since that couldn't come with us I had to improvise."

"Why didn't you just save it to the screwdriver in the first place?"

"Because that would mean losing the visible format. It's a screwdriver, not a projector. It can store the file, but it can't display it."

"Ahh. But you got something good?"

"I think so." He gazed thoughtfully at the device. "Possibly even the answer . . ."

She waited. She was too tired to push him. Much. "And?"

"I'm not sure. I don't know what to make of it, there's some things I don't understand."

"Like what?"

He looked her in the face. "Camelia . . . tell me, what exactly do you mean when you say 'sponsor'?"

She blinked. "I told you. I mean a sponsor like anyone's sponsor."

"One sponsor for everyone, or a sponsor each?"

"A sponsor each! You know what I mean!"

He groaned, exasperated. "Just . . . pretend I'm from another planet."

As if you aren't? she thought. "Alright, um, my sponsor is my . . . my predecessor. Eddie Trisk and Jean something were my sponsors, I told you. One day one of them—I don't know which—thought it might be fun to sponsor some offspring, so—"

"'_Offspring'?"_ he echoed incredulously.

"Yes, let me finish: So they sent some samples to a breeding facility in Nysa—that's some ways outside Ilythia—and I and seven other copies came out. Though I guess technically you could say I'm a copy as much as any of them—"

"A _breeding_ facility?! What on earth is that?"

"Calm down." His confusion was increasingly unnerving. "You should know what a breeding facility is!"

"Well, I don't!"

"You would if you were _human!"_

Silence. Then a new voice chimed in: "Being human's got nothing to do with it."

They turned to see Berin standing in the doorway. "If he's from Hecate, he really might not know what you're talking about."

"Yes! thank you! What _are_ we talking about?" the Doctor asked.

"A breeding facility," explained Berin, "is where people are grown from embryo to infant. I take it you were born naturally?"

"Wha—" The Doctor gaped at Camelia. "This is it, then? You're not born, you're . . . raised by machines?"

Camelia likewise stared. "You mean . . ." She looked at Berin. "There are still people who are . . . _birthed? "_ She squirmed uncomfortably.

Berin nodded. "A few years back we had to set up a room just to accommodate the occasional Hecatian pregnancy that came through."

"Wha—all Hecatians, though? They still . . ." She waved her hands vaguely. "Like animals?"

"Not all of them. I think some people on the northern continent have started sterilizing."

"What does that mean?" asked the Doctor, growing all the more exasperated. "And what do you mean, you had to set up a room just for Hecatians? Surely there are . . . accidents? Doesn't anyone on Aurora conceive naturally?"

Berin and Camelia both shook their heads.

He sighed. "That's . . . some birth control."

"It is," agreed Berin. "It stems back about a hundred years or so—here, you seem pretty clever, should I tell you the whole story?"

The Doctor leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. _"Please."_

"Alright, lemme think . . . Over a hundred years ago, there was a crisis. Sexually transmitted diseases had become so prolific and so destructive that some countries were actually on the verge of war over medical resources in the struggle to stop them. A lot of people made a profit off various new vaccines, one for each strain that cropped up, but eventually people had enough and could see they were really getting nowhere, just doing damage control for a problem that raged on despite all their efforts. So finally, they tried—"

"They tried monogamy?" The Doctor raised his eyebrows.

"No. They turned to genetics. Our ancestors isolated the genes responsible for sexual reproduction and found a way to neutralize them in such a way that prevented a myriad of STDS from taking root, but without destroying any gametes. . . Most of them, at least."

The Doctor frowned intently. ". . . And this . . . only happened on Aurora?"

"This is mainly to do with Aurora, yes. Hecate was largely left out of the process."

"Mm. Keep going."

"Alright—anyway, there was some resistance, of course, until the province of Pelion developed the first public-run breeding facility. Once people understood that they could still have children, and without government involvement, they began volunteering themselves and their children for sterilization."

"When did it become global?"

The Doctor's voice was flat. The light seemed to have gone out of his eyes.

"About eighty or ninety years ago."

"And everyone since then . . ."

"Is born artificially, yes."

"_Why."_

"What?"

"Why?" the Doctor spat. "You got rid of the problem, your doctors killed the STDs. Why continue, why keep raising people in _warehouses_ when you could move on and get married and have _families_ like _healthy_ human beings?!"

"Married?" scoffed Camelia bitterly. She had grown quiet through Berin's lecture and now emerged with a scornful look on her face. "No one gets _married,_ marriage was outlawed fifty years ago!—I take it that's still allowed on Hecate, too?"

"What! Why?!"

"Civil liberties," explained Berin. "Marriage is considered a vestige of slavery."

"That's ridiculous! Marriage is one of the most wonderful things you humans _have! _Promising to spend your life taking care of someone else? That's not about holding someone hostage, it's about holding yourself to sacrifice! You don't have to be freed from it, you lot just reject it when you don't _like_ it!"

"Then we didn't like it!" burst Camelia. "And we got rid of it! Problem solved!"

"Let me show you something. Berin, would you mind letting me borrow your key?"

The Doctor took the key, set it on the table, and aimed the screwdriver at it. Images raced through the interface until a document appeared. "I found this on the computer downstairs. Go on, read it." He couldn't understand when he'd first discovered the file. Now he wished he didn't.

Berin and Camelia leaned forward to read the text.

The Doctor got to his feet. "Well?"

"But . . ." Berin was in shock. "But this would mean they've known for years!"

"Known what?" asked Camelia. The file's medical terminology had gone over her head.

The Doctor looked at her directly, and tried to be gentle. "It means the government's known what rhixis is for the last five years. They're just afraid to let anyone know, because there's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Wha—but—but why? What is it? Just tell me!"

"A mutation," said Berin, eyes still on the hologram.

"A mutation," echoed the Doctor. "Your contraceptive genes are decaying. And it's created the worst disease of all: The kind you can't run away from."

Berin took a deep breath. "So, in essence, everyone on Aurora is born a carrier."

"No! No, not if you read the whole thing. Turns out the virus is only activated by . . . well . . . let's just say children don't contract it."

"But I've . . . I've never _had_ rhixis, obviously," said Camelia. "You're saying it just lies around in our DNA like it's dormant or something?"

"Exactly."

"What's it waiting for, then? Why don't more people change?"

"Not 'waiting' for anything, really. At least, not anything in particular; that's just the thing, there are any number of random triggers floating around that could push anyone over the edge. That's why it appears so spontaneous. It could be stress, it could be a food you've never eaten before, it could even be dehydration. Any time your body produces new cells after a change of routine you introduce the possibility of the virus coming to fruition. Tell me, is there any cancer on Aurora?"

No answer. Through the course of his speech his audience had grown very quiet. Camelia's fingers were trembling under the table.

Berin coughed and found his voice. "Uh—uh, um, no, there isn't."

"And why do you think that is? . . . Because the first cell that divides into cancer activates rhixis all on its own. It's not that cancer's been cured, it's just overwhelmed by something even worse."

"Alright!" cried Camelia. "But what are they doing to _stop_ it? What does it say they're working on?"

"Well—they can't tell people the truth, of course. Might cause a panic—might force them to take a closer look at how they live their lives, even," he added wryly. "So they keep it quiet, and turn to the only control subjects they can find—the Hecatians."

"Why couldn't they just fix the genes? Reverse the problem?"

"Can't risk it. It might work on a child, but once the mutation has been activated any tweaking might set it off."

"Why use the Hecatians, then? What good would they do?!"

"Cowpox," murmured the Doctor. Aloud, he explained: "On earth, the vaccine for smallpox was developed by exposing people to a weaker form of the disease carried by cows."

"I've heard of that," said Berin. "The human immune system attacks the relatively harmless virus and the antibodies learn its weaknesses so that when the fatal strain appears a defense is mounted immediately."

"Exactly. But with rhixis the virus is already present—even if it wasn't, you could hardly expect the cells to attack their own DNA. That's why cancer's so hard to fight. So what do you do?" His eyes darkened. "You force that virus on a healthy subject with correct genes to see if their antibodies will build a defense for you."

"They thought the Hecatians might build an immunity to rhixis?" said Camelia.

"Ironic, really." Berin's eyes were far away. "You'd expect the people most exposed to the disease to build up a resistance, not the other way round."

"Desperate times," said the Doctor. "People turn to desperate measures." He looked like he was going to be sick.

"What were all the animals there for?" asked Camelia.

"Probably to see if rhixis could cross the species barrier," said Berin. "Did they? . . . Cross the barrier, I mean."

"Um, no, not that we could see."

"Good. I'd hate to think they started experimenting on humans when they could've been looking for a vaccine in animals."

"As opposed to experimenting on humans at all?"

Berin couldn't think of how to answer.

"Either way, it didn't look like any of it was actually working," said Camelia. "Most of the people in that room were infected."

The Doctor groaned and rubbed his face. "Ohhh, the virus is too aggressive. Human cells can't divide fast enough or forcefully enough, you need—" He stopped.

"What is it?" asked Camelia.

"Nothing."


	10. Chapter 10

Grouchy the monkey was hungry. The lady who came with the food every day had not come to put it in his bowl. First two strangers had come in and he had yelled at them, and then the lady came in after them, but she did not feed him, she only made loud noises at the two strangers and there was a terrific standoff and then more loud noises and a bright light and she had fallen asleep on the ground, and hadn't woken up to put food in his dish.

The strangers did not seem to want to give him food, so he had gone to sleep, till a very loud noise woke him up and big heavy men came in covered in black, and he had screamed and screamed till they left too without giving him any food.

One of the men came back inside, though, and went into the dark room that hissed and stank. When he came out the monkey could smell death on him. He had walked awkwardly to the other end of the room, spreading the death-scent to the lady on the ground and then to two men outside.

Grouchy was not hungry enough to want food from hands that smelled so bad, so he had gone into a corner of the cage and begun grooming himself. Outside, the four people wandered aimlessly around the room, quiet until they walked into each other, and then they bit or scratched rather lifelessly till one or both fell over and they started wandering all over again.

There was a patter of feet, and Grouchy and all four humans looked up. A figure in a white coat was coming down the steps.

"Hello?" she called. "Anyone down here?"

Grouchy screamed. The humans moved towards the exit. The footsteps grew louder.

"Are you okay?! Is someone hurt?"

Grouchy screamed again, and so did the monkey underneath him and the monkey behind him. One of the dogs barked.

"What's going—AAAAAAH!"

"Mmmawww . . ." They moaned and threw themselves out the door. Grouchy heard something behind him and turned to see more humans, all rank, emerging from the dark room. He tugged at his tail anxiously and wondered if there was food where they were going.

* * *

Barkhoff extended his arm gingerly for the technician to bind it and tried to think about something pleasant. Somehow it was difficult putting his mind at ease between having his blood drawn and the threat of everything he had worked for over the past decade shattering before his eyes.

He picked his key up out of his lap, having set it down for the procedure, and called Captain Warsaw. "Have you found the third man yet?"

"No. We believe he may be one of the Hecatians Kreshner was keeping in the basement, which would mean he isn't wearing a key. Do you want us to lock down the hospital?"

"No. Find him yourself! Or tell the local authorities he's a madman with some latent form of rhixis and that they should shoot him on sight once he's out of the hospital. I don't know! But you're not to cause a scene in the hospital. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir."

* * *

"_. . . You're not to cause a scene in the hospital. Is that understood?"_ crackled the key on the table.

"_Yes, sir."_

The Doctor flipped the screwdriver in the air. "HA!"

Camelia sighed as he disengaged the audio link. "Seriously, how can they not know by now that you stole one of their keys? . . . And what are you so happy about?"

"I'm happy because we have a way to get to Barkhoff."

"What are you thinking?" asked Berin.

"Barkhoff doesn't want us causing a scene. What better place to hide than a stage? We'll just go back to the waiting room and reroute from there. We can't stay in here forever."

"We can't?" said Camelia drily. "And after the waiting room, we just leave? Come back another day?"

"Nope! The waiting room is between here and the elevators leading up to the tower. It'd be one step closer to getting to the heart of the problem."

"This is ridiculous. Half our trouble in the first place came from going downstairs when we wanted to go upstairs."

"Hang on, we did find out what rhixis is. That's a start."

She just shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Well, lead the way, boss. Don't get us killed or anything."


	11. Chapter 11

Berin went on ahead, the Doctor and Camelia following a minute or so after him. They walked fast, ignoring the cameras.

The waiting room was still packed with people in line to be screened. The Doctor paused on the fringe of the crowd. He was afraid that if they got lost in the thick of the mob it would be easier for an assailant to slip in and stun them up close.

"Alright," he mused aloud, "so you say this chancellor of yours admitted his son for treatment in suspended animation. . . How did that happen? Did they send him to the hospital the _day of?_ How long can someone live with rhixis in their body?"

"A few weeks at most."

"So how long can they keep someone frozen like that?"

"Mmm, I'm not sure. I know you can survive in one of those life support units for almost a month without food or water, but I don't know if it's the same with rhixis."

"But Berin said Barkhoff had taken over the hospital for years—ever since his first son died."

"Well, that makes sense, he might have set all this up as preparation in case the same thing happened to Grady."

"I suppose so." But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he was missing. "When exactly did they change the laws about travel off-planet? Was it before or after Barkhoff's first son died? . . . Camelia? Camelia, are you _listening?"_

Camelia's eyes were fixed on a point across the room, high enough she had to lift her chin to get a proper view.

"Camelia?"

"Hm? What?" She didn't turn her head.

"What are you looking at?" He squinted. She might be staring at any one of several people, all standing together in line. What was she after?

"Tell you what," she said, still staring, "why don't you, ah, hold that thought—I'll be right back." She went ahead before he had a chance to stop her.

He hung back uncomfortably and watched as Camelia made her way to the edge of the crowd. She said something he couldn't make out to a tall blond, and when he answered said, "You seem familiar . . . have I seen you around before?" He said something back. "No, I think . . . Do you ever go to Club Gaia?" The man presumably said yes. "Oh, wow! Yeah! You always have a friend, but you never go upstairs, right? . . ."

The Doctor waited a while longer, shifting fitfully from one foot to the other. Surely Camelia had good reason for this delay.

". . . Mine's Camelia. Nice to meet you. . . So, you need to get out of town, or are you just trying to get stamped as soon as you can so you won't have to worry about it? . . ."

The Doctor glanced at a nearby clock. Two minutes.

". . . It's a long-distance relationship, then, or does your girlfriend not like clubs? . . . Oh! okay, no girlfriend . . . So what is it that keeps you coming back? . . ."

He couldn't take it anymore. He crossed the room to confront Camelia.

"Ahh, yes, excuse me," he interrupted, "do you mind if I borrow her for a moment? Just a quick word."

"Of course," said the man politely.

Camelia's eyes flashed, though her tone remained pleasant. "Um, actually, can it wait?"

"Only be a minute."

"Well, Liam may be through the gate in a minute."

"Please." He was firm.

Camelia deliberated for a second, then let out something between a sigh and a snarl while the blond wasn't looking. "Fine. Wait for me, Liam?"

"Alright."

She followed the Doctor several steps outside the crowd and hissed, _"What?"_

"What are you doing?"

"Seizing the moment."

"Do you even _know_ that man?"

"I was about to!"

"What does this have to do with our problem?"

"It has nothing to do with our problem! Is that so bad?"

"We have work to do!"

"Yes—which we will get to, all in good time. As it turns out, I could break out with rhixis at any moment; so if you don't mind, I'd like to take some time out in the interim to make the most of my immediate future."

"You could be helping me figure out a way to stop this madness, and instead you're . . . throwing yourself at men you've never met before!"

"Hey!" Now she looked truly nasty. She narrowed her eyes and bristled like a cornered animal. "Who do you think you are? All you've done is look down on me—and everyone else, for that matter—since reading that report, just because you don't like how we live our lives. I don't see how it's any of your business—or what gives you the right to be so high and mighty."

"When it gets in the way of saving a planet, it becomes my business."

"Even so—You've been like this the whole way, it's like you think you're superior to everyone and every rule for who knows _what_ reason. I don't know if you really want to help or if you've got ulterior motivations: I don't even know who you _are."_ She paused, waiting for him to argue. When he didn't she went on. "Alright, just tell me this: Why didn't you know about rhixis before? Even the Hecatians know about it, even if they don't contract it."

"Who told you that?"

"Braden did."

"Ahh." He sighed. ". . . Alright, yes, you're right, I'm not like you. I'm not human; I'm a Time Lord."

She screwed her face. "That a sort of cult?"

"Wha—No, it's extraterrestrial!"

At first she couldn't understand what he was saying.

Then she stopped. Her stomach went cold. ". . . You're an _alien?"_

"Yeah."

She took a step back. Her eyes ran up and down his body in confusion. Her breathing quickened. "A real alien?"

"Yes."

"But . . . but you seem human!"

"Not quite." He took her hand and gently guided it to his chest—_thump!-thump, thump!-thump,_ went the heart—and then down to the right half of his rib cage. _Thump! thump. Thump! thump._

She pulled her hand away, gasping. "No! . . . No, really, though?"

"Really."

"But this is the way you really look, you're not . . . _faking_ it or something?"

"No, this is me."

She took a deep breath, and laughed softly. "I don't suppose you give a wit about catching rhixis, then, huh?"

"No, actually; the DNA is compatible. I'm as much in danger as anyone else."

"Then why are you here?"

"_Well! _. . . Partly because I left my ship on Hecate, if I'm honest," he admitted. "But mostly because . . . well, I suppose . . ." He shrugged rather lamely. ". . . because you need help."

For a moment Camelia couldn't find anything to say. She just stood, dumbfounded, trying to think. ". . . And you came here by yourself?"

"Yup. Travel alone."

"Small ship?"

"Mm . . . No, not exactly . . ."

"And you, what, just came here for laughs?"

He smiled. "Something like that."

"This happen a lot? I mean, are there a lot of other aliens walking around?"

"Not to my knowledge."

She studied his face. Somehow, she was able to smile. "I think I'd like to see your ship."

"Maybe. When this is all over."

"Right." She nodded. "I don't suppose you'll let me sort out some personal _human_ business first?" she asked, indicating the blond in line. He answered with a sharp look that made her sigh. "Fine. Whatever. I'll probably break out and infect him anyway. Oh, hey!" she yelped. Her key was buzzing; she gave it a tap.

Berin's voice: "Where _are_ you two?"


	12. Chapter 12

"Ah, sorry, we got a bit sidetracked," said the Doctor.

"If you're going to the tower you've got to go now. They've deadlocked all but the main two exits and they're stopping everyone who tries to leave without a key. Do you see any security guards in the waiting room?"

"Now we do."

"The staff has been ordered to stop seeing people for screening, so that crowd you're hiding in will be sent away in a few minutes."

"Where are you?" asked Camelia. "Do you know where the _private_ security officers are headed?"

"I—" They lost him for a second. They couldn't tell if he had rung off or simply stopped talking, until they heard what sounded like footsteps through the connection. "I don't know! But we've got bigger problems to worry about," he said, breathless. "Outbreak. Seven nurses in the corridor."

"What?" exclaimed Camelia. "Which corridor?"

"Uhhhh, um, Corridor D?"

"Corridor D?" The Doctor turned pale. "That's directly connected to the basement . . ."

At first Camelia couldn't see what was so upsetting. Then it dawned on her. "When we dragged Braden out of that room . . . did we leave the door open?"

The Doctor blinked. "Doesn't matter," he said, rather unconvincingly. "Camelia, you know, we _both_ know, an outbreak could happen at any time."

"Yeah, but _did we_ leave the door open?" She looked at him sternly.

For a second, just a second, she caught a glimpse of horror and grief in his eyes; but he pushed it aside just as quickly with some visible effort. "Look, it doesn't matter right now. We need to get to the tower before this gets out of hand."

"Fine, lead the way."

Just then, the intercom crackled to life:

"_Attention, all patients waiting to be screened for rhixis? . . . All patients waiting to be screened for rhixis . . . We are about to close the screening gate for maintenance. If you have not yet been stamped, please come back tomorrow. Thank you."_

Groans. Protests. "Awwww!" "What?" _"Come_ on!"

"Let's go," said the Doctor. "Now or never."

It wasn't ideal. The crowd was starting to shuffle back towards the exits and movement in any other direction was bound to attract attention. Camelia noticed one of the guards looking at them already as they headed for the corridor.

—Until, quite as suddenly, he was looking at nothing.

The man's eyes had begun to cloud over. He looked down in time to see his hands go scaly and green, and then all spark left him. His jaw went slack. From behind him appeared another infected human, a nurse, eyes dead and white.

It was incredibly surreal. There they were, thirty feet away from clear and present danger, and everything else continued on as though nothing had happened. The crowd was turned towards the exit and hadn't seen anything, they just kept mumbling and shuffling and pushing their way steadily out the doors.

The Doctor saw a nurse behind the screening gate. He put out his hand. "Don't!" he said, and she bit back a scream just in time. Good; he had no idea what a panic might do to them now, and he didn't want to find out.

Camelia reached for her pistol. "You think anyone would notice if I shot both of them? . . . Three of them? . . . Four of them?" She gulped. Two, three, now six more infected appeared in the corridor. She raised her weapon. "Doctor, it'll be easier while they're bunched together like this . . ."

"Just how much ammo've you got in there?"

"It runs out of juice after about fifty shots."

He looked over his shoulder. There were still a few dozen people left in the waiting room, but at this point they would just keep to their present course and leave the building, surely. Well, maybe not surely, but Camelia was right: The infected would be more difficult to neutralize once they were out of the corridor and had room to spread out. "Alright—"

A streak of light hit one of the greened men in the hallway, and he collapsed. Camelia hadn't fired, though—the bolt had come from further inside the corridor. Her key crackled to life.

"Well?" came Berin's voice. "Care to help me out? I thought one of you had a gun!"

Camelia answered by taking out four infected.

And, of course, people screamed.

* * *

Berin spoke into his key. "There's more of them going down Corridor B. I may not be able to get out until this hallway is cleared. And you might not be able to get to the elevator if you let the bodies pile up in the hallway."

Camelia: "Good point."

"Hold on!" The Doctor. "How did this happen?! This is a hospital! Aren't there precautions?"

"Of course there are! There are special sensors in all the rooms and corridors set up to alert staff whenever rhixis appears. I don't know how it got this out of hand so fast!"

One of the infected nurses rotated slowly and gazed blankly at him. She started to move toward him. He shot her down.

"We're almost to the elevator," said Camelia. "Can you sort of . . . I dunno, draw them back?"

Berin grimaced, but said, "Of course." He stamped his foot and whistled. The infected turned in the direction of the sound and began shuffling towards him. He backed away down the hall. "That good enough for you?"

"Yep!"

Berin had to back up another fifteen feet. Too far and the horde would lose interest and turn back to the Doctor and Camelia, too close and he was as dead as the lot of them. He aimed for an infected security guard. He pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.

Oh, come on! He tossed the weapon in disgust. "I'm out of power," he said into his key, eying the approaching infected as he did so. "The guard I took the pistol from must have—"

A flash of red, and the infected went down. Confused, Berin turned around to see who had fired and found himself faced with the soldiers from earlier. Their leader turned to him. "Sir, you'll have to come with us."

Berin stared at him. There was a mob of men and women infected with rhixis wreaking havoc in the middle of a public hospital, and they were concerned about _him?_ "There are more in Corridor B!" he protested. "If you have to lock me up at least send someone to take care of it!"

"Do we look like containment?" The man waved ahead the other soldiers, who jogged forward to take hold of the technician. "Where are your friends?"

Berin said nothing. The man raised his eyebrows. "You think we wouldn't torture you to find out?" He shot a blast over Berin's shoulder that made him wince. At first he thought it was intimidation, till he heard a body drop behind him and realized the officer was just keeping the horde in check.

"Well?" he said. When Berin didn't respond, he nodded to the soldiers. "Take him upstairs. Back elevator; the stairs have been compromised."

Berin didn't resist but looked fiercely into the man's face. "Do whatever you like with me. I know what the chancellor's really doing up there. And soon I won't be the only one."


	13. Chapter 13

The conversation was not lost on the Doctor or Camelia, who listened intently during their long ascent to the tower. As soon as they'd made it into the elevator Camelia had tried to phone Berin to let him know, before realizing there were other voices on the line.

"They said the stairs have been compromised," she said. "Does that mean the infected could be on any floor?"

"Any floor but the tower. The only way up is through the elevator, and even then you need a key."

"Or a magic screwdriver."

"_Sonic!"_

"How did the outbreak _happen,_ though?"

"It must have started in the basement. All those sensors Berin talked about—well, you can't have them in a lab where all you ever do is spread the disease. They'd have to jam the signal to hide what they were doing."

"So this _is_ because we left the door open. The infected must have got out—and spread rhixis to the soldiers . . ."

"We don't know what happened. And we can't changed anything now. —Ahh, I believe this is our stop . . ."

They broke out of the elevator into a short hallway. The Doctor spun on his converse, trying to make sense of it. There was a miniature reception desk and a wraparound hallway—wrapping around one big, square isolation room with thick glass windows. From the looks of the equipment hooked up to it, that container inside had to be holding someone. The chancellor's son, perhaps?

"Excuse me!" came a powerful voice. They whirled around to see a large man by the reception desk glaring at them. "Who exactly might you be?"

"Oh—I'm the Doctor!"

"Where's Dr. Kreshner?"

"Oh, he's, um, slipped out for a bit. You must be Chancellor Barkhoff!"

The man narrowed his eyes. "He's not allowed to just 'slip out for a bit'. Where is he?"

So he _was_ the chancellor. Whew. Couldn't afford to make any major mistakes on their timetable. The Doctor smoothed his hair. "Well—I dunno, actually! I did see him downstairs. Going—where was it, Camelia?"

"Oh, I think it was . . . the cafe, maybe?"

"Kreshner's been out of the hospital for the past hour. Who are you people?!"

"Ohhh, well, it was worth a shot," sighed the Doctor, and ran up to the door of the isolation room. He pulled the screwdriver out and scanned the monitor attached to the lock.

"That's giving up a bit quick, isn't it?" asked Camelia. She whipped out her pistol and trained it on the chancellor.

"We are in a hurry."

"Are you threatening me?" growled the chancellor, looking down at the gun.

"Hm? What do you mean, 'threatening'?" cried the Doctor, turning around. Camelia dropped her hand before he could see the pistol.

"I dunno," she said, shrugging. "What are you getting off that screen?"

"Hold on." He resumed scanning. She resumed holding the chancellor hostage.

"Please keep quiet," she said under her breath. _"I_ don't have a problem with shooting you."

"You'll never get away with this," he hissed.

"Take a look in the mirror, mate. Have you been downstairs?"

"I'm not liable for any of Kreshner's methods, whatever they may or may not be," he said, loud enough for the Doctor to hear.

"Yeah," said Camelia. "The funny thing about being a leader is that people tend to assume your people do what you tell them. That makes you either a lousy leader and an idiot or an absolute monster. Which is it?"

"I'm telling you the truth! . . . and I don't have to answer to you either way."

The Doctor finished his scan. "No. But you will have to live with yourself."

"What is it, Doctor?"

"It's this boy, Grady. His rhixis: . . . It's not natural." He turned around, slowly, eyes on Barkhoff. "It was induced."

Camelia kept her eyes on the chancellor but frowned nonetheless. "Wait, what?!"

"According to that computer, he was put under before he got sick. They introduced a small sample of the virus into his blood stream themselves and have been trying to cure it ever since."

"Why?!"

Camelia tried to subtly lower the pistol so he wouldn't see it as he came close. He was so focused on Barkhoff, however, that it didn't matter. "Because the chancellor's scared. He knows his days are numbered. And because, in the grand scheme of things, Grady's not really your son, is he?" he asked, speaking directly to the man. "You're just his 'sponsor!'"

"Same difference, though," said Camelia.

"Not to everyone it isn't." He raised his eyebrow absently at the object in her hand. "Put it away, please? . . . Thank you. . . Didn't you say the chancellor had two sons? Can't imagine what happened to the first. Probably tried infecting him before realizing he was so young he hadn't activated the virus yet; made sense scientifically to find a host for the cure who was most compatible with your own physiology."

"That's very good," said Barkhoff drily. "Might've been nice to have someone like you on my payroll."

The Doctor didn't do anything for a second. Then, spat: "You make me _sick."_

They stood like that a long moment, glaring into each other's eyes. One defiant, the other incensed. Camelia thought the Doctor might hit him, but he remained otherwise relaxed.

". . . Can I shoot him now?"

"No." He walked away. If the outbreak reached the tower soon, they might not have to shoot him, he thought savagely. He had to focus. He had to find some way of stopping this, _now._

A doctor. "I need a doctor!" he exclaimed.

"I thought you _were_ a doctor," said Barkhoff. Camelia seemed to find this very funny.

He snapped his fingers. "Whatever happened to Berin? Is he still with us?"

When Barkhoff didn't answer—either because he didn't understand or didn't want to help—Camelia turned on him. "Your thugs, they were after a technician who was with us. Swarthy, good looking. Would you happen to know where he is?"

"If they haven't brought him up by now, they've probably been swarmed."

She narrowed her eyes, deliberating, then walked up to him till she was speaking up into his chin. "Listen to me very carefully," she snarled softly. "This man wants a doctor. He is going to have a doctor. Get. Him. A doctor."

Barkhoff sneered. _ "Screw you."_

"With respect, sir. I am very much in the mood to hurt you. But instead I am going to _let you_ help my friend. And you are going to be _thankful_ when he saves your sorry self because you were smart enough to get him one. Or you can be a pigheaded, power-hungry numbskull and wish when all this is over that I _had_ shot you."

She waited. For a second it looked like Barkhoff might hold his ground. Then he gnashed his teeth and said, "They just took someone into the back room." And he jabbed his thumb violently towards a door. The Doctor ran to it.

Camelia stepped back and shook herself off. "Thank you." He sneered again. "Fine, be bitter. You are the scumbag, after all."

"I'd advise you to remember who you're talking to."

"Oh, that's right, you are our chancellor, aren't you? Ugh." She frowned. What was the Doctor doing that was taking him so long?

A few minutes later the Doctor finally appeared, followed by Berin. "Right! We've got serious problems."

"Wow! That's new."

"It turns out . . . the infected might be able to get in here after all."

Barkhoff thundered: "What?!"

"How?" asked Camelia.

"Well, somehow they got into the elevators—"

"But you can't get up to the tower without a key."

"Unless someone rings up the elevator from here. And we're not entirely sure they can't find a way down from the roof."

She blinked, then burst out laughing.

He looked worried. ". . . Yes?"

"Sorry. It's nothing." She'd just had a mental image of a crowd of infected spilling into an elevator and having to go up and down from accidentally bumping into the buttons. "Keep going."

"Berin and I are going to follow up on a lead; can you block all the exits for us?"

"Of course I can . . ."

"Good! And watch him!" he shouted over his shoulder as he dragged Berin down the hall.

Camelia turned back to the chancellor, whom she seemed to have just caught in mid-step as though to attack her. She raised an eyebrow. He glared. She shot him.


	14. Chapter 14

Besides putting all the furniture she could find up against the obvious exits, Camelia searched around and blocked off all the windows and ventilation to be safe. After she'd wound up by binding the stunned chancellor, she went looking for the Doctor. She stopped dead on the threshold of the operating room.

"What—what are you doing?"

Berin was outfitting the Doctor with what appeared to be knee and elbow pads, with chrome plating that only covered his joints laterally. The Doctor had removed the jacket of his pinstripe suit and rolled up the sleeve of his left arm. "What are _you_ doing? you're supposed to be covering the exits!"

She blinked. "I—I barricaded the doors, I didn't think you'd bite my head off for coming to check on you."

"Look, we're fine, just keep an eye on those doors!"

"Berin, seriously, what are you two doing in here?"

Berin looked blankly at her, then at the Doctor. "Please, Camelia, just listen to me," the Doctor pleaded. "It's vital Berin and I not be disturbed. Do you understand that? Just _trust_ me!"

She stood a second longer, staring at him, and at last gave up. "Fine. Trust you. Just forget that up until a half an hour ago I didn't even know how many _hearts_ you have."

Berin watched her leave, then looked to the Doctor, confused.

"Don't stop!"

* * *

Camelia went around to check the exits again. She was scared out of her mind by rhixis, and even she felt comfortable with her security measures. What exactly was so important that the Doctor felt the need to get rid of her?

She did a double-check, just in case—though she had a sneaky feeling now that she was probably wasting her time—then went to the monitor that the Doctor had hacked. "Search: Security video."

A set of files opened holographically. She tapped the records for the tower's security feed, found the camera in the room where Berin had been held, and rewound back to the moment the Doctor had entered to free him.

"_Berin! There you are!"_

"_Doctor? What's happened?"_

"_Ah, something of an emergency, I'm afraid," said the Doctor, undoing the ropes that held Berin to the chair. "There's a mob of infected people filling the hospital and they're making their way up to us."_

"_How do you plan on getting out?!"_

"_I don't."_

_Berin stared. "You _don't."

"_No, I've got something better!"_

"_A time machine?"_

"_Ahhh . . . No." The Doctor smoothed back his hair and took a deep breath. "Alright, I'm going to need you to listen very carefully, because the fate of the entire planet might depend on this." He saw Berin's face. He paused. ". . . Okay, maybe pull it back a notch. Think about saving just our lives, does that help?"_

"_A little."_

"_Good. . . . I need you to expose me to a vial of rhixis."_

"_What?!"_

"_They've been experimenting on the chancellor's son for weeks now; they'll have methods for extracting it safely. Do you think you can do it?"_

"_Of course I can. But why?!"_

"_I'm the smallpox cow."_

"_What?"_

"_I need you to hook me up to draw blood from my body, in increments, while I'm exposed to the rhixis. Hopefully one of those samples will contain a reaction strong enough to counter the virus, and you can mass-produce that to immunize everyone else."_

"_What?! I thought you said the antivirus technique wasn't working! I thought you said the rhixis was too—"_

_The Doctor lost his patience. _"It's different!_ Alright? It's different with me! I'm not . . . entirely . . . human. I'm a Time Lord."_

_Berin was stunned. ". . . But what does that mean?"_

_The Doctor sighed, licked his lips, and attempted to explain himself. "My cells are able to store up massive amounts of energy during my day to day life that I don't use, ever, unless I'm critically damaged. When I am they divide, rapidly, _aggressively,_ until my entire body regenerates. Even segments of DNA will change. If that process began before the rhixis progressed too far, then the virus would be wiped out and the new DNA would more than likely develop an immunity to the disease."_

"_Are you serious?"_

"_I'm very serious. But I need your help to set it up."_

"_Of course! What can I do?"_

"_First, I need you to set up some sort of restraints for me."_

"_Restraints?"_

"_I told you, my body gives off massive amounts of energy. Usually out the extremities—yeah, it's a bit of a mess . . . But we can't risk me thrashing around or doing anything that might damage the machine while it carries the blood out of my arm."_

"_Got it." Berin was about to spring to work, but the Doctor stopped him._

"_One more thing, Berin. I need you to promise me something. . . . I need you to burn my body when it's done."_

"What?!" Camelia rewound to make sure she heard it right. The Berin on the screen looked as confused as she was.

"_I need you to burn my body when it's done."_

"_Wha . . . What do you mean? You just said your body would beat it."_

"_I'll regenerate free of the rhixis. But the restraints will prevent the energy from siphoning out of my body. I could cook like a christmas turkey—if that happens, then I need you to get rid of my body. Just burn it. It's too dangerous to be left on Aurora."_

"_But . . . if what you're saying is true, then you're asking me to sentence you to death."_

"_Yes."_

"_I can't do that. I took an oath."_

"_You have to," said the Doctor gently. "It's the only hope for saving everyone on Aurora." Berin appeared unconvinced, so he went on: "If you won't help me, I'll strap myself down myself and die anyway, with far less chance of success."_

"_Then I'd have to stop you."_

"_I just told you I'm not even human. You sure you want to try that?"_

_Berin hesitated. ". . . No."_

"_Good. You'll help me, then?"_

"_Is there no way to keep you alive?!"_

"_No. The energy is biologically oriented. The only thing that could take the pressure off of my body would be living tissue close enough to attract the waves. But if you or anyone else came within fifteen feet of me the energy would kill you. There would be no point."_

"_I see."_

"_And I need you to create that vaccine. Patent it, do whatever you like with it, just make sure you cure this planet."_

"_I will."_

"_And—just one last thing; don't tell Camelia."_

Camelia turned off the monitor. Fidgeted absently.

"_If what you're saying is true, then you're asking me to sentence you to death." . . . "Yes."_

"_Don't tell Camelia."_

"Don't tell Camelia"? Did he think she was going to interfere?!

Yeah, and he was probably right.

She had to get back to the operating room. But she was almost too ashamed to move. She felt like the biggest idiot in the the world.

"_Who do you think you are? All you've done is look down on me—and everyone else, for that matter—since reading that report, just because you don't like how we live our lives. I don't see how it's any of your business—or what gives you the right to be so high and mighty."_

"_It's like you think you're superior to everyone and every rule for who knows what reason. I don't know if you really want to help or if you've got ulterior motivations: I don't even know who you are."_

She wished she'd never seen that stupid Liam, never been given opportunity to open her fat mouth. But she knew it wasn't just the man from the waiting room; her whole attitude was rotten.

"_If what you're saying is true, then you're asking me to sentence you to death." . . . "Yes."_

Who did that? . . . Who _did_ that?! She slumped back against the wall and slid down onto the floor. Who . . . just . . . _gave_ themselves to save a bunch of people they'd never met? When all they had to do was _leave_ and never give it a second thought as long as they lived? When your host treated you like an enemy? . . . She felt her eyes well up and pressed her forehead into her hands helplessly. She began to sob.

She had to tell him she was sorry. Before it was too late. Maybe it _was_ too late. She struggled to her feet and checked the monitor. She scrolled through the cameras till she found the operating room.

An image appeared of Berin, synching the joints of the Doctor's "elbow pads" with corresponding segments built into a bulky chrome apparatus constructed around the reclining table on which the Doctor lay.

"You'll want to raise your elbows into the slots before I turn the machine on," Berin was saying. "These are incredibly powerful magnets. If you let them pull your arms in for you it might cause injury."

Camelia didn't wait to hear the rest. She left the monitor and made for the operating room herself.


	15. Chapter 15

Camelia almost smirked. There seemed to be a snarl of irony in the situation. She was preparing to beg forgiveness from a man whose head she had bitten off because he had gotten preachy about her . . . recreational habits. What had he expected, anyway? Everyone—_everyone_—on Aurora was like that. There were prudes here and there, but by and large it was just a matter of having fun. Logically, rationally, she shouldn't have to apologize for defending what was already established as morally acceptable. He was the selfish one, not her.

But he was the one preparing to give his life for everyone else. Anyone who called _that_ selfish deserved to be shot.

Who knew what kind of world he was from, or where he had been? Somewhere he had come to form ideals more like those on Hecate—of a simpler, more sheltered culture. The sort of ideals that would lead a man to lay down his life for people he didn't even know. It didn't matter what she'd heard or read before: She'd never known anyone who could do that. And if he could be that selfless, there had to be something in what he said. He was a better man than she'd ever known. The kind of man who deserved to walk away from today's crisis to fight another day. If that wasn't impossible . . .

"_Is there no way to keep you alive?"_

She came to the operating room, and hesitated before stepping across the threshold. Berin was sitting with his hands at the buttons of a large control panel laid out in front of a large window, through which the operating theater could be seen. The Doctor was laid out on the table, half-reclined, bound up in copious amounts of equipment. All four limbs were magnetically sealed into the hardware, a thin tube leading out of his arm for a few feet till it slipped safely away into a large metal segment which, presumably, fed back to where Berin sat. The lights were off in the control room.

Berin's back was to her, so he didn't notice her come in. He spoke into a microphone. "Alright; I just need to make one last check. It should be a minute or two."

"Alright." The Doctor's eyes were on the ceiling. Camelia couldn't tell if he was scared or not—but then, she couldn't get a good look at his face. The calm was unbearable.

"_Is there no way to keep you alive?"_

Unfortunately, maybe there was.

She took a step, then another. Half of her was desperately hoping Berin would turn around, or the Doctor would look up, and in the nick of time catch her. But no matter how slowly she moved Berin's attention remained fixed on whatever he had in front of him, and the light in the operating room probably bounced off the window so the Doctor couldn't have seen her even if he'd looked. The door came closer, and closer.

She watched as her hand reached out and felt the door handle in her fingers. "Sir?" she heard Berin say.

"No, not sir," came the voice through the speaker.

"If you say so. . . Doctor?—It's been an honor. I . . . I wish I could've gotten to know you better."

"Likewise, Berin."

". . . Now?"

A pause. "Now."

Berin pressed a button. For a second nothing happened. And then the control room filled with light. Golden light, like sunlight. Celestial light.

* * *

Camelia took a deep breath. She had often wondered, when the thought came to her in the dead of night and the reality of it all became impossible to ignore, what it would feel like to break into a fit of rhixis. Imagined her body going cold and her mind going numb and all sorts of freakish pains racking her body. What would it be like to die in a bath of gold light instead? She hoped, feebly, that it would be quicker.

She pushed open the door, and was nearly blinded.

Berin saw movement in the operating theater, but by the time he got to his feet it was clearly too late. The light, which at first surged and wafted brilliantly about the chamber, hit the girl's body and flew into her like a bolt of fluid lightning. She burned a blinding white before she even had a chance to scream. The torrent continued for almost five seconds, out of the Doctor and into her, before finally, the lights went out.

* * *

The Doctor fell back in the seat, gasping. He was himself. He felt like himself. Something was wrong. He looked into the window. Yes, he was himself.

What? Why hadn't he changed? The regeneration process didn't end with the rhixis gone, did it? That wasn't how it worked.

"Hey!" he yelled at the glass. "You think you can get me out of this thing? Please?"

Berin, who seemed to be elsewhere, blinked, shook himself, and hit a switch. The restraints came apart with a gentle hiss and the Doctor unhooked his arm from the IV. "Well?" he demanded. "What happened? Did you get it?"

Berin held up a small vial for the Doctor to see. "Analyzing," he said shortly.

What was wrong with—?—and then the Doctor noticed something in the window's reflection.

"No . . . No, no, no!" he ran to the doorway, where a figure lay prone across the threshold. The flesh was still cooking. But the face was definitely Camelia's. "How on earth did she get in here?!" he demanded.

"I don't know! She said she was going to fight off the infected!"

"Get in here and help me!"

The Doctor tried to pick her up under the arms, where her shirt offered small protection against the heat off her skin. Berin appeared in the corridor in front of him, but stopped before picking up her legs. "Doctor, she's dead!"

"We need to get her to a stretcher! Get me oxygen, anything!"

"No, she's dead!"

"No, listen to me!"

"How can you _possibly_ think she's still alive?!"

"Don't think, just get me a stretcher!"

Berin gave in and brought him his stretcher, and they laid the corpse across it and provided it with oxygen and adrenaline and whatever else the Doctor made Berin think of. It was clear, however, that the brain had been scorched along with the flesh.

The Doctor continued for fifteen minutes longer, trying by any means he could think of to coax, jolt, or force life back into the body. At last he pushed the stretcher away violently and stood, chest heaving, in the middle of the room. Helpless.

"Doctor."

Berin was calling for him softly. He ignored him.

"Doctor!" Berin repeated, a little louder.

"What?"

"The rhixis—it's been overwhelmed."


	16. Chapter 16

The new serum wasn't usable for curing those already infected, but it worked beautifully as a vaccine. Those inoculated were not only free from the fear of one day losing themselves to the disease, they could touch rhixis-ridden bodies with their bare hands and walk away unaffected. The only human to be saved from the disease after infection was Grady, the chancellor's son. (The chancellor himself, along with Dr. Kreshner and other medical personnel, were sentenced to life in prison shortly after their vaccination.) He was revived from stasis crippled for what hoped to be an otherwise very happy life, as the virus hadn't reached his nervous system. He was cured from the worst before it was too late.

Once the serum went into mass-production it was at last revealed that the contraceptive genes were the cause of rhixis, and breeding facilities across Aurora were either prohibited from raising offspring with the alterations or pressured into making such changes by public demand. The next generation would consist almost entirely of naturally reproducing humans.

It was amazing, the Doctor thought, how small of a fight the breeders were putting up; after all, it was their business they were throwing away with all those soon-to-be-fertile human beings leaving their warehouses. Things would have to change, and change quickly. Society would have to focus its energies back to obstetrics and curing cancer.

"Excuse me, sir?"

He blinked.

He'd been standing in the middle of a field ripe with blue Hecatian grass, staring up into the darkening sky at the looming crescent of Aurora. Aurora and the thousand-odd stars behind it, with their thousand-odd worlds, which should have struck him as a thousand times more significant—should have put things in perspective.

It had been a week since they had invented the cure and Camelia had died; flying to Hecate had since become much easier. Beside him, next to the TARDIS, stood a freckled young girl in florally-decorated coveralls.

She cocked her head to one side. "You alright?"

He sniffed. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm alright. I'm always alright."

"Well . . . okay . . ." She smiled—an uneven, gap-toothed smile— and skipped away back down the hill.

The Doctor took one last look at Aurora. Then he turned, stepped into the TARDIS, and shut the door behind him.

* * *

"Well? You said it was urgent."

Captain Warsaw was not held directly responsible for the chancellor's crimes, but he still had to spend a considerable amount of time in prison. During the first two months of his sentence, there was only one person he asked to see. Friends and family didn't matter; he was concerned with the greater good, and the greater good demanded he speak to the minister of security, Rex Listings.

"It is urgent," he said. "It concerns the incident at Ilythia Major Hospital four months back."

"Ahh, yes." Listings folded his arms. "Where you helped Barkhoff hold more than two hundred Hecatians against their will for grotesque experimentation, correct?"

"Three hundred," growled Warsaw. "I was just following orders. And I never went in the lab."

"Oh! then, let us see to your release at once."

"I didn't come here to talk about me. Something happened that day that I think you should know about."

"Hm?"

"When we first found out that someone had breached security, it was after one of the nurses had discovered a break-in. We checked the records for the door and discovered that her key had been used to open the door twice."

"So?"

"So, there was no way out of that lab except through the one door. But according to the records, someone used the key to get in, and then, before anyone left, used the same key to get in _again."_

Listings frowned. "Would you necessarily need a key to _leave_ through that door?"

"No."

"Well, then, the intruder must have used Medley's key and left it outside, where she found it and used it after them."

"No, that's just it, Medley had been wearing the key all day. We found records of her key's signature in the tower within the same minute the basement laboratory was broken into."

Listings furrowed his brow, growing worried now. "So, what is it you're trying to say exactly?"

"Someone made a copy of her signature!"

Listings shook his head. "No, that's impossible. Multiple signatures are not permitted in the sphere, you _cannot make_ a copy."

"Why do you think I called you down here?" demanded Warsaw. "Obviously, someone can!"

Listings leaned back in his chair. His face knotted in concern and his mind raced. The implications were terrifying. One man, if he could mimic his way through a system presumed impenetrable by governments the world over, had the power to instigate untold horrors. It didn't stop with simple mischief like vandalism or theft. He could start a war without batting an eyelash. He could use various identities to trick world leaders into entering a conflict or launch all the missiles himself.

Listings looked at Warsaw. "Well, is that it, or were you expecting some kind of deal in exchange for more information?"

"Nothing more. I am only interested in the safety of my country."

Listings snorted. "I suppose that was your rationalization for carrying out Barkhoff's dirty work." He sighed. "As it happens, it's your lucky day. And mine. The council is voting in five days on whether to make tagging the mandatory method of identification. In light of this new evidence, I think we'll all be able to agree that the days of the wristband are over."

"You think tagging would solve the problem?"

"Of course." That was what he'd have to make the council believe, anyway. "A genius might be able to deactivate a wristband to disassemble, hack or replicate it, but once anyone has a tag implanted he'll have to physically dig it out of his hand before he can turn it off. And once it hits the air, we'll know."

"And what if someone cut off his own hand? . . . You laugh, but I've seen criminals do more for less."

"Well, you can cut off your own hand, but not your own head. Men with criminal records will receive the processors for their tags in the forehead." He smirked drily as he gathered his things and made for the door. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Warsaw. If all goes well, you'll be sure to know. Look for our mark in the bathroom mirror."

With that, he stepped out of the room and shut the door behind him.

* * *

_"Then desire when it has conceived gives birth to sin,_

_and sin when it is fully grown brings forth death." (James 1:15)_

_..._

_This story is dedicated to our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,_

_by whose sacrifice we are remade:_

**_"We were buried _****_therefore with him _****_by _****_baptism_**

**_into death, in order that, _****_just as Christ was raised_**

**_from the dead by the glory of the Father,_**

**_we too might walk in newness of life."_**

_(Romans 6:3-4)_


End file.
